Skeletons
by HelenLouise
Summary: A ghost from Jesse's past threatens to destroy him. STORY NOW COMPLETE!
1. Chapter 1

Rating: T for violence/language.

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters of DM. I do own the ones I created.

**Author's notes: Very special thanks to everyone who reviewed my last story 'Trance'. This story does appear elsewhere on the internet, so some of you may have read it before. The story is complete and I will endeavour to load chapters frequently. Please review. Feedback makes it all worthwhile. **

Skeletons

By

Helen Louise

"My name's Bill Burton and I'm looking for Jesse Travis."

"I'm Jesse Travis." The doctor in question turned at the mention of his name and found himself confronted by a middle-aged man in a tailored suit, who looked vaguely familiar. "How can I help you?"

"You can start by telling me what the hell happened to my brother," Bill snarled, with sudden aggression.

Jesse took a half step back, trying to figure out who the man was and why he was so angry. His first instinct was that it was an irate relative – he'd faced hostility in his chosen career before. Patients died; it was a sad fact of life. But there were always those who would insist on apportioning blame for any fatality – and often, the doctor was the easiest target.

"I'm sorry," Jesse answered, trying to hold onto his professionalism and diffuse the situation. "Perhaps if you told me your brother's name…"

"Wayne Burton. And don't pretend that you don't know what I'm talking about." He stabbed his finger into the young doctor's chest for emphasis. "The way I hear it, you were one of the last people to see him alive."

"Wayne…" Shock robbed Jesse of his breath and his vision tunnelled until all he could see was the man in front of him. "Uncle Wayne… That was almost twenty years ago."

His eyes unfocussed as a sudden, powerful memory assailed him. _Lying on his back, with damp grass soaking through his clothing; a man towering over him, looking impossibly tall to his young eyes; pain._

With a gasp, Jesse forced his attention back to the present. This wasn't Wayne Burton standing before him and he wasn't in Elgin any more. And he was no longer twelve years old and helpless. He forced a note of calm authority into his voice: "I think it might be better if we go somewhere more private."

Jesse took the man into the doctors' lounge. Wayne Burton belonged to a part of his life that he'd thought to be closed forever – an infinitely painful part of his life – and he didn't want those memories stirred up in public. He had no idea as to how he might react. Offering friendliness in an attempt to keep Bill's hostility at bay, he got them both a coffee.

"I don't understand," he said, softly. "Your brother's been dead for close to twenty years. Why are you here now?"

"I can tell from your expression and your tone that you remember Wayne now," Bill answered, his own expression giving nothing away. "The last time I spoke to him was two years before he was killed. Nobody in my family has had any contact with him since. He disowned himself completely."

"So why now?"

"My mother died last month." Genuine emotion flared in the man's eyes, but it wasn't grief. It looked disturbingly like greed. "And my father changed his will. He left half of his estate to Wayne and half to me – provided that I find some way to resolve the feud. Otherwise the whole lot goes to charity."

"But Uncle… But Wayne is dead." Jesse silently cursed his childish slip. "Surely there must be some proviso…"

"Yes, Wayne is dead," Bill snapped. "And I should get all of the money. But that's not good enough for my father. He wants details and I don't have them. All I know is that when I was trying to track my brother down, I heard some disturbing things."

Jesse swallowed dryly, but didn't respond. He wasn't at all surprised by the statement; it had been a disturbing time.

"Like the fact that my brother was murdered and that nobody was ever even arrested, much less punished for his death." He leaned forwards intensely. "You wanna tell me why that is, doc?"

Getting to his feet – needing to put some distance between himself and this reminder of his past – Jesse again allowed his mind to return to Elgin. He'd been all of twelve years old and his father had just walked out of his life. He had barely recovered from the shock of that when the first of his 'uncles' had moved into his mother's bedroom. Wayne Burton was by no means the only one, but he was the most memorable – for all the wrong reasons.

"It was a long time ago," he whispered.

"I tried to track your mom down first," Bill said, causing Jesse's head to snap up in alarm. "Another Doctor Travis – funny that. But it seems like she spends a lot of time in Europe. Must pay well this doctor business."

Jesse felt a surge of relief that – for the time being at least – his mom was being kept out of this. Whatever 'this' was.

"I still don't understand what you want from me," he confessed.

"My brother was shacked up with your mom when he died." Bill grabbed hold of Jesse's shoulder and whirled him round to face him. "I don't care what else he might have been, I don't care that I didn't speak to him for almost twenty years. He was my brother – and I want answers. My father wants answers."

"Hey!"

A startled shout from the doorway interrupted the potentially ugly scene and Jesse looked up with undisguised relief as Steve Sloan stepped into the room. The look that he aimed at Bill Burton was nothing short of murderous.

"Everything okay, Jess?" The detective's tone was heavy with suspicion.

"Yeah, Steve." Released from Bill's grasp, Jesse smoothed down his white coat. "Yeah, everything's fine. This is Bill Burton. He's…" _A ghost – or the relative of a ghost. _Jesse paused, wondering how he could introduce the man.

"Doctor Travis knew my brother." Bill offered the explanation, and then his eyes fell to the badge attached to the newcomer's belt: "You're a cop," he said, stating the obvious.

"Lieutenant Steve Sloan. Homicide." Steve didn't proffer his hand to be shaken and his eyes were still narrowed.

"Homicide, huh?" Bill ignored the thinly disguised hostility. "You got many unsolved murders lying around here, Lieutenant?"

"There's always one or two think they can slip through the net," Steve answered, guardedly. "We don't stop looking."

"I guess you wouldn't in a city the size of LA – what with all those resources." His eyes returned to Jesse. "But I guess it's different in a small town like Elgin. Lucky for you, hey doc?"

Bill took that opportunity to make his exit and it coincided with Mark Sloan's arrival in the doctors' lounge. Mark's eyes followed the stranger through the door and then he turned to greet the occupants.

"Steve, Jesse. Do you..?" He trailed off as he picked up on the somewhat strained atmosphere. "Is everything alright?"

"I don't know, dad." His son answered, his eyes fixed on the youngest man in the room. "I was just about to find out. Is everything alright, Jesse?"

"Yeah." Jesse forced a smile. "Yeah, everything's just fine."

Father and son exchanged a glance – both recognising the lie for what it was. As Mark headed over to the coffee pot, Steve began his careful interrogation.

"So, who was that guy?" he asked, his tone deceptively conversational.

"I told you. His name's Bill Burton and I…" He fell back on the explanation that Bill had used. "I used to know his brother." Jesse's tone was guarded and he glanced frequently towards the door, as though weighing up his chances of escape.

"His brother?"

"Wayne," the young doctor whispered, his eyes again losing their focus. "Wayne Burton. He was a… friend of my mom's."

Neither of the other men missed the hesitation and another look was exchanged behind the oblivious doctor's back.

"I don't remember you mentioning him before," Steve prompted.

"He doesn't belong here." The words were spoken softly, almost to himself.

"Jess…" Steve had his next question already formed in his mind, but was cut off as his father held up a warning hand.

"What do you mean, Jesse?" The older Sloan took over the questioning. "What do you mean 'he doesn't belong here'? Where does he belong?"

"It was a long time ago," Jesse murmured, with unmistakable tears in his voice. "It was such a long time ago. I don't remember. I don't want to remember."

"Jesse!" Mark's tone had gone from inquisitive to concerned and, as Jesse's eyes refused to regain their focus, he grabbed hold of his arm. "Jesse, son, sit down." He guided him towards the table. "It's okay, Jess."

The soothing tones got through to Jesse and he blinked rapidly, giving himself a mental shake.

"Um, sorry," he mumbled, ducking his head so as not to see their worried gazes. "I guess I kinda got lost for a minute there."

Mark could see that his son was itching to ask more questions, but he silenced him with a simple shake of his head. Jesse was still looking shaken and he knew that any further explanation would have to wait. He pushed the young man's coffee mug closer to him.

"Drink this, Jesse. It'll do you good."

Jesse's responding smile wasn't overly bright, but he did as Mark requested. However, it was not long before he made his excuses and exited the lounge. Mark stared thoughtfully at the door as it closed behind him.

"Do you have any idea what that was all about?" he asked.

"No, but I fully intend to find out," Steve answered, his eyes following his father's pensive gaze.

* * *

When Mark arrived home that evening, it was to find Steve already there. He was seated in the lounge with a handful of photos and files scattered across the coffee table before him and Mark just had to smile at the expression on his face. The detective was glowering at the papers, as though that alone would make them give up whatever secrets they might have contained.

"New case?" Mark asked, putting his bag down and wandering over to where his son sat.

"Old case," Steve responded. "Very old case."

Intrigued, Mark picked up a stray photograph. The face that stared back at him was shockingly familiar, even though he'd only met the woman once. It was undoubtedly Jesse's mother – a good few years younger, but her all the same.

"Steve…" There was trepidation in his voice as he stared at the picture.

"I know, dad." Steve sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "But that guy really got to me this afternoon. So I called Elgin and got them to fax over everything they had on Wayne Burton. There wasn't much of it."

"So, does Jesse know that you've been prying into his personal life?" Mark asked, completely without rancour.

"No, but he soon will." Steve's tone was grim. "I've been over all this a thousand times and I keep reaching the same conclusion. Wayne Burton was murdered seventeen years ago – and Jesse's mom is the prime suspect."

"Oh, Steve, be careful," Mark breathed, as the full implications of that shocking revelation sank in. "Do you have any idea what this could do to Jesse?"

"I know." Steve sighed again and pinched the bridge of his nose – feeling a headache threaten. Sometimes his natural curiosity – and his natural detective skills – could be a curse. And it was a curse that he'd inherited from his father.

"What happened?" Mark couldn't help but ask.

* * *

Across town – and completely unaware of events at the beach house – Jesse slept badly. Bill Burton's visit had reawakened feelings that he'd thought to be long buried. Tossing and turning in a futile attempt to get some rest, the young doctor found his thoughts drifting back down the years.

_It was a familiar position for him: sprawled on his back, cowering and terrified as his 'uncle' rained blows down on him. He didn't even know what he'd done to deserve the beating this time. It didn't matter – it never mattered. Wayne Burton was a monster, preying on those who he perceived to be weaker than him. Jesse's slight stature and gentle nature made him an easy target._

"_I'm sorry!" His voice was a strangled sob and the apology did little to appease the man._

_Jesse raised an arm to ward off the belt that had lashed towards his face and tried to squirm out of the way. His shirt came free from his pants, exposing the flesh there and, the next time it fell, the belt connected with his bared ribs. He screamed, but even that wasn't enough to stop the torture._

_  
"You __**will**__ listen to me," Wayne murmured, almost to himself. "God help me, if you were my kid..."_

_  
The rest went unheard by the boy. All he knew was the pain - not only from the beating that he took, but also the agony of betrayal. He couldn't understand how his mom could be so blind as to what was happening._

Jesse let out a low moan, lost in a nightmare all the more terrifying because it was a memory.

* * *

"It seems that Wayne Burton was a real prince." Steve's voice was laden with sarcasm. "Pretty handy with his fists, by all accounts."

"Jesse?" Mark asked, sombrely.

"Yeah." Steve's face was tight with anger. "The cops were called out a couple of times, by a neighbour, but no complaint was ever filed against him. It must have gone on for months, dad."

"And Jesse wouldn't speak out against him – probably because he was too scared. What about his mom?"

"In the statement she made after Burton's death, she claimed that she never knew what was happening." The expression on his face eloquently portrayed exactly what he thought about that statement.

"Maybe she chose not to see it." Mark wasn't trying to defend the woman, but he did think he could go some way towards explaining her lack of action. "I'm guessing that this happened not long after the divorce?" At Steve's assenting nod, he continued: "She was a single mother in a small town. It can't have been easy for her." His son didn't look convinced, but Mark didn't give him time to dwell on it. "How did Burton die?" he asked.

"His head was caved in with a shovel." Steve picked up the relevant file. "Hardly the sort of thing you could pass off as an accident. Jesse's mom claimed that there had been trespassers on their property and Burton was killed in a fight."

"Is there any chance that might be true?"

"Dad, her statement's so full of holes I could drive my truck through it. She had no alibi and there's nothing to suggest that the supposed trespassers ever existed."

"That's hardly damning evidence, Steve," Mark cautioned him, even as he felt his own unease stir.

"I just want to know why this was never investigated." The detective admitted, knowing that he could never resist a mystery. "Nobody was ever arrested, the case was never closed. It's just sat on file for all these years. It's like the cops in Elgin took Jesse's mom's word for what happened – and then just left it alone."

"Maybe that isn't such a bad idea." Another photo had caught Mark's eyes. It was a picture of a child – a sombre, unhappy looking child. But the brooding eyes were unmistakably Jesse's.

* * *

Jesse woke up to find his apartment still in darkness. The digital display on his alarm clock told him that it was almost three a.m. With a muffled groan he sat up, rubbing one hand wearily over his face. He was still exhausted, but knew that further sleep was out of the question. The beating of his nightmare had been the last one that Wayne Burton had inflicted on him and he didn't want to risk dreaming about the events that had followed. He snapped on the bedside lamp in a futile bid to chase away shadows that existed solely in his head.

The young doctor wandered into the bathroom hoping that by sticking to his routine – even if he was more than three hours early – he would be able to distract himself from the dangerous places his thoughts threatened to lead him.

"_Oh God, my poor baby. I didn't know, Jesse. I swear, I didn't know."_

Jesse flinched as his mother's voice sounded suddenly, shockingly in his mind. So much for routine. Events of a generation ago were being replayed as if they'd only happened yesterday.

_He stared down at the corpse with terrified eyes. He had never seen a dead body before and he felt a scream bubble in his chest, rise up his throat and then emerge as little more than a whimper. Suddenly he was being held in his mother's almost suffocating embrace, his face pressed into her bosom as her tears soaked his hair._

"_I'm sorry, baby. I'm so, so sorry," the normally composed woman sobbed. "He's never going to hurt you again. I promise you Jesse, nobody's ever going to hurt you again."_

Suddenly realising that his ribs were aching, Jesse unconsciously reached down to touch the tender area where the belt had bitten into his flesh, raising ugly welts. He could feel only smooth skin beneath his fingers and he muttered a curse, shaking his head to try and dispel the memory.

He turned on the shower and stepped under the scorching spray, allowing the noise of the water to drown out the voices that he couldn't fully silence.

* * *

"I'd love to leave it alone, dad, but I don't think I can." It was the early hours of the morning, but the father and son still pondered the case. "When I contacted Elgin, they told me that I'm not the only one who's been asking after Wayne Burton recently."

"You're thinking about the brother." Mark surmised.

"Yeah," Steve answered on a sigh. "To be honest with you, this information was hardly classified and if he finds out what a shambles the investigation was…"

"He might start trying to find the answers for himself," his father concluded, grimly. "Where was Jesse when all this happened? Did he actually witness the murder?" He hadn't taken the time to read the files, trusting his son to fill him in on the important details.

"Nobody even took a statement from him." The exasperation in Steve's voice was unsurprising. He was a good cop and expected everyone privileged enough to carry a badge to be the same. "Even if he wasn't there when Burton was killed, they should have at least talked to him."

"He was a confused and frightened child," Mark answered, striving to find reason. "Maybe they didn't see his testimony as important."

"Any testimony from a potential witness is important," Steve snapped – unable to help his reaction. "He could have had that one detail, that missing clue…"

"I know what you're thinking. You're thinking that the clue might still be there – in Jesse's head. But it was seventeen years ago, Steve," Mark could hardly believe that they were sitting there so calmly, discussing putting their mutual friend through such trauma.

"There's no Statute of Limitations on murder, dad," Steve responded – but his eyes betrayed his torment.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

Rating: T for violence/language.

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters of DM. I do own the ones I created.

**Author's notes: Many thanks for the reviews. The website where this story first appeared is, unfortunately, dormant at the moment. The site does not belong to me, my friend just very kindly posted my stories there. **

Skeletons

Chapter Two

_Let it go. Let the past stay dead. No good will ever come from this. _Unaware that Jesse had suffered the same fate – and for the same reasons – Steve found it impossible to get any rest when he did finally succumb to his body's need to sleep. _Digging up the past is only going to hurt Jesse. What kind of a friend would that make you?_

_But not digging would let a murderer go unpunished. What kind of a __**cop**__ would that make you?_

Steve punched his pillow, but it did little to ease his frustration and he silently cursed having walked in on the confrontation that afternoon.

_Oh yeah?_ _And let that guy beat Jesse to a pulp?_ He sneered to himself. _Didn't he have enough of that when he was a kid?_ That thought led him, inevitably, back to his dilemma. It was one hell of a motive for murder, to see your own child abused in such a way. He didn't believe for one minute that Jesse's mom couldn't have known what was going on – surely any parent would.

And surely any parent would do something about it. He had seen people do some shocking things in defence of their offspring – his own father had been accused of the same. Jesse's plight was rudely pushed from his mind by the memories of the time he'd been shot and almost killed. And of his father being condemned to Death Row. It had been a nightmare time for all of them but they had eventually emerged relatively unscathed. The truth had won out – as Steve liked to believe it always would. Slowly, his eyes drifted shut.

_It's going to destroy Jesse._

"Dammit!" Steve couldn't prevent himself from cursing out loud. He was exhausted and yet he knew that, until he made a decision – one way or the other – about what he was going to do, he was destined not to sleep.

Be a good friend or be a good cop. The choice was stark and simple; because there was no way that he could be both.

* * *

"So, have you decided what you're going to do yet?"

Steve almost jumped out of his skin at the sound of his father's voice. Having given up on the pretence of sleep, he had crept around the house as silently as he could in an attempt not to disturb the older man – only to discover that his efforts had been in vain. Mark was already up – though still wearing his robe – and was pottering around the kitchen.

"Dad, what are you doing?" Steve asked, frowning.

"I'm thinking about making breakfast," Mark replied, nonplussed. "Would you like some?"

"It's only five a.m. and it was long after midnight before you went to bed."

"And you'd know that because you retired at exactly the same time I did." Mark paused long enough to pour freshly brewed coffee into two mugs. "I think we're both here now for the same reason. We still have some very difficult questions to answer."

"I've been trying not to think about it." Steve sipped at his too-hot coffee, grouchy due to the unearthly hour and his need for caffeine.

"And failing miserably from the looks of it." There was sympathy in his father's voice – and understanding. "But I also think that you know what you've got to do. Talk to Jesse, son."

"Wait a minute." Steve was genuinely surprised by those words. "Last night you were trying to talk me out of doing this."

"No, last night I asked you if you'd considered the consequences." Mark looked at him sadly. "Since then, we've both had the time to do just that. And I had to ask myself not only what it will do to Jesse, but what it will do to you. You can't ignore your instincts here, Steve – any more than you could stop the sun from rising in the morning. A crime has been committed and, at this moment in time, you're the only one who can find out the truth."

Steve could only stare at him open-mouthed. His father was always finding new ways in which to amaze him. But, in all honesty, he shouldn't have been surprised to find he understood what a terrible position he was in. If anybody knew Steve – almost as well as he knew himself – it was Mark.

"Just talk to him," the older man reiterated. "It's the right thing to do."

Steve shook his head, tightly, in spite of the logic of what he'd just heard: "What am I supposed to do? Just walk up to him and say: 'hey Jess, do you think your mom killed that guy who was beating up on you all those years ago?'"

Mark snorted humourless laughter: "You're a good cop, Steve. And he's your best friend. You'll find a way."

"So I talk to him." He wasn't about to start going easy on himself. He hated everything about the situation. "That would make me a slightly better cop than those back in Elgin who allowed things to come to this."

"It's a start, Steve. And it's better than jumping in with both feet before you know all the facts. Nobody's ever heard Jesse's version of events. Maybe he can corroborate his mother's statement. Maybe he can tell you the truth."

"And if he can't – or won't?"

"Let's just take things one step at a time," Mark advised him with typical sagacity. "There's no point in looking for problems, they can happen all by themselves."

* * *

After breakfast and a reviving shower, Steve drove straight to the hospital. His dad had told him that Jesse had an early start and he figured that he could catch him before things got too hectic. He wasn't the type of man to put off a task – no matter how unpleasant it might be.

He used the drive to try and figure out exactly what he would say to his friend, but it was futile. There was no easy way to broach the subject and so he was left with no choice but to play it by ear.

He found Jesse in the doctors' lounge, slumped over the table and nursing a mug of coffee. Steve merely observed him for a long moment – the younger man being completely unaware of his presence – before knocking lightly on the doorframe.

Jesse looked up and the detective winced. If he'd thought that he or his father had looked rough, they had nothing on the young doctor.

"Are you okay? You look… tired…" _How was that for an understatement?_ Steve thought to himself. _Half-dead wouldn't even come close._

"Yeah, I'm good." The younger man's response was far from convincing, as was the little smile he offered as reassurance. "Late night, you know?"

"Burning the candle at both ends, huh?" Steve forced levity into his tone when inwardly he wanted to scream. He couldn't remember ever having felt so awkward around his best friend.

"Something like that."

"Jess, are you busy?" The time for pleasantries was over and Steve got straight down to business. "I need to talk to you."

Jesse looked away and tried to force the sudden tension from his shoulders. He wanted nothing more than to run away; to not talk about events that, in a just world, would have remained in the past where they belonged. But he knew that, having witnessed the scene with Bill Burton, the detective wouldn't simply let the matter drop. He took a swallow of his coffee, stalling for time.

"Jesse?"

"Um… sure. What's… uh, what's on your mind?" His attempt to sound casual failed miserably.

"Jesse, I…" He paused, seeking the right words – but they weren't there and he had no option but to come right out and say it. "I know what happened in Elgin."

"What?" Jesse whispered in utter disbelief. He'd been trying to think of a plausible lie to explain away Bill Burton's behaviour, but Steve's words made that unnecessary. "You… You know..? How..?"

"There was something about that guy yesterday and well… after I left here I made a couple of calls." Steve felt vaguely guilty as he made that confession.

"You checked up on me?"

The detective winced at the raw betrayal that was contained in those few words and sought some way to explain his actions: "Jess, Bill Burton looked like he was threatening you yesterday. Then he went on to drop some pretty heavy hints about an unsolved murder – a murder that you might be involved in." Steve had to force himself not to look away as every trace of colour faded from his friend's face. "What did you expect me to do?"

"You…" Jesse could only stare at him, with eyes that were wide and held more than a hint of fear. The trouble was that he'd expected this to happen. He knew his friend too well, knew that he wouldn't be able to resist the mystery. He just hadn't expected him to unearth those events so quickly. "It was a long time ago," was all he could think of to say.

"Yes, it was." Steve studied him thoughtfully, wondering how far he should push. "But that's not the sort of thing that you just forget about. Wayne Burton was killed in your back yard. I can't believe that you've never even mentioned it to us."

"There was nothing to tell." Jesse mumbled his response and kept his eyes fixed firmly on his coffee mug. His mind was racing, seeking to find a satisfactory explanation that would appease the other man – and stop him from digging any deeper.

"Jesse, he was murdered!" The detective could hardly believe that his friend could try to just brush him off. "How can there be nothing to tell?"

"It wasn't like that," Jesse protested half-heartedly, still not looking at the other man.

"Then what was it like?" Steve couldn't help but continue with his questioning. Jesse's behaviour was only reinforcing his suspicions as to what had actually happened. "Jess, that man put you through hell and then he was murdered. But in all the years that I've known you, you've never even mentioned his name."

Hearing the persistence in the older man's voice and knowing that he was never going to leave things well alone, something inside Jesse snapped. He surged to his feet: "What did you want me to say, Steve? What did you want me to say? Did you want me to tell you how he used to take his belt to me, no matter how hard I tried not to do anything wrong? Or how about the time he locked me in the cellar and left me there all night? Huh? Is that what you wanted to hear?" His face was twisted with anguish at the pain of his memories. "Have you ever had your mouth washed out with soap, Steve? It makes you sick."

"Jesse…"

"Don't, Steve." Jesse fought to hold on to his anger, knowing that to hear sympathy from his friend would make him cry. Then his humiliation would be complete. "Don't tell me that you understand. Not you who grew up with a father who was there for you, who didn't walk out on you and leave you to… Leave you…"

He was close to losing control and he wasn't about to do that. Steve had already learnt too much and, if he continued with the interrogation and with his own emotions in such turmoil, he was afraid of what he might inadvertently give away. He was left with no choice but to flee.

* * *

Mark found Steve still sitting in the doctors' lounge a short time later. Unwittingly copying his son's own actions, he paused in the doorway before entering. He could see from the detective's body language that the talk with Jesse hadn't gone well. He scowled to himself, belatedly wondering if he should have tagged along.

"Hey, dad."

Mark started in surprise. He had been certain that Steve had been unaware of his presence. With a rueful smile, he entered the lounge.

"I take it you spoke to Jesse." Mark didn't even pour himself a coffee before getting straight down to business.

"Yeah." Steve answered on a heavy sigh. A frown settled on his brow as he remembered the conversation. "You know, I don't think I've ever heard Jesse curse. I mean, really curse. I've hardly ever even heard him raise his voice."

"Steve?" Mark didn't try to hide his puzzlement at his son's words.

"Jesse told me that Burton once washed his mouth out with soap and that it made him sick." The detective looked up at his father. "Why would he do something like that? I mean, Jesse was just a little kid, but I can't see him cursing at the man. I can't see him defying him at all."

"People like Wayne Burton don't need reasons for what they do." As a doctor, it was only too easy for him to imagine the hell that Jesse must have gone through. He'd seen victims of such abuse all too often in his long career. "Did he say anything else?"

"Oh, he said plenty more, dad, plenty more. Unfortunately, not about the murder." He sighed again. "He still blames his dad, you know."

"I thought he and Dane had things all patched up." The revelation that Jesse's father was a government agent and not the accountant he had always believed – and that he had walked out on them to keep them safe all those years ago – had gone a long way towards rebuilding their relationship. At least that's what Mark had thought.

"Maybe on the surface," Steve shrugged. "But, at the end of the day, Dane moved out and Wayne Burton moved in. That's a lot to forgive."

"Do you think it would help if I talked to him?" Mark didn't doubt his son's abilities, but he did want to help. And Jesse made no secret of the fact that he looked on Mark almost as a surrogate father. A different approach might be enough to get their friend to open up to them.

"You can try," Steve answered, but he didn't sound overly optimistic.

* * *

Jesse leaned back against the wall of the storage closet and closed his eyes, heedless of the tears that ran down his cheeks. Inwardly, he cursed his lack of control. He hadn't meant to yell at Steve; hadn't meant the bitter outpouring that, once started, wouldn't be stopped. And he certainly hadn't meant to mention the incident with the soap.

His cheeks burned with humiliation at the memory. Unlike the final beating that he'd received he knew exactly what his 'sin' had been on that occasion.

_Hunched over the table, his brow furrowed with concentration, Jesse tried to make some sense of algebra. Then a shadow fell over him and he looked up fearfully._

"_You think dinner's going to fix itself?" Wayne snarled at him._

_Jesse's eyes strayed to the clock on the wall. It was almost six o'clock, his mom would be home any minute and she would fix dinner. That was their routine._

"_My mom…" he tried to explain._

"_Your mom called and said she's got to work late." His words were cut off as soon as they emerged. "So I'll ask you again: do you think dinner is just going to fix itself?"_

"_I didn't… I didn't know."_

_With one violent sweep of his arm, Wayne sent the homework scattering across the floor. "Are you answering me back, boy?"_

"_N… no…"_

"_That's not what it sounds like to me."_

_Jesse cringed as a hand reached towards him but, instead of striking him as he'd expected, it buried itself in his hair. His eyes watering with pain, Jesse was dragged to his feet and propelled into the kitchen._

"_I'll show you what happens to kids with a smart mouth." Wayne muttered, forcing Jesse towards the sink. "I'll teach you to respect your elders."_

_Almost paralysed by terror, Jesse couldn't find his voice to protest that he'd done nothing wrong. Wayne used the brutally tight grip on his hair to force his head back and his mouth opened in a silent scream. Then he was gagging and choking as a bar of soap was forced into his mouth._

"_You'll think twice before you smart-mouth me again." Wayne easily ignored the strangled gasps that the boy emitted and the froth that ran from the side of his mouth as Jesse's own saliva worked the soap into a lather. "You speak only when you're spoken to and then you show some respect."_

_Jesse wretched helplessly, but could not dispel the bar. It tasted like flowers and smelled like his mom._

Jesse moaned softly and slid down the wall into a crouch, hugging his knees to his chest. What had possessed him to tell Steve of that painful, humiliating episode? Steve, he knew, would be bound to tell Mark and then he would have to endure their pitying looks – or worse, their well-intentioned attempts to get him to talk about it.

"Doctor Travis to the ER! Doctor Travis to the ER!"

The voice over the tannoy reached Jesse even in the storage closet and he looked up sharply, having been rudely jerked back to the present. Utter mortification washed over him. He was on duty, he had patients to tend but, instead of being where he was needed, he was hiding in a closet like a frightened child.

The irony of that thought was not lost on him and he gave himself a mental shake. He wasn't a child any more; he was a fully qualified doctor and head of a busy ER. In spite of everything that he had endured, he had gone on to fulfil his dreams. No matter how many times Wayne had belittled him – striking blow after blow to his fragile confidence – he had somehow bounced back.

Though his mom had been blind to a lot of things, she had always recognised his potential. On the rare occasions that they spent any time together, she encouraged him to dream. She was the one who told him that he could do anything if he just put his mind to it. And she had been right. They had survived Wayne Burton and the aftermath of his death and, for a short while, it had drawn them closer. It had been something that they alone had shared – and that only they could understand.

But his mom was a busy woman – building her own medical practice – and after a few short months he was left alone again with his dreams.

Taking a steadying breath, Jesse wiped away the last of his tears and grasped the door handle, preparing to go back out and face the world.

No, he was not a child any more.

Seventeen years had passed and if he thought he could still taste the soap then it was only in his imagination.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

Rating: T for violence/language.

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters of DM. I do own the ones I created.

Skeletons

Chapter Three

There was a feeling of urgency in the ER that set Jesse's pulse racing and pushed all thought of Wayne Burton out of his mind. People were moving purposefully, making preparations for what looked like a major incident. The tannoy was blaring, paging all available staff and the young doctor stepped effortlessly into the middle of it all.

"What have we got?" he demanded of a passing nurse.

"Tenement fire – and a bad one. The first of the ambulances should be here any minute."

Jesse winced inwardly, mentally running through the types of injury he would inevitably encounter. Burns – obviously – but also smoke inhalation, shock and broken bones from where people had tried to escape. There would be dozens of casualties and he was the first point of contact. He would perform triage, ensuring that help was given to those who needed it the most. Then he would spend the rest of the day in the OR.

"Jesse!"

The young doctor froze at the sound of Mark's voice and he took a moment to compose his features. Fixing a smile onto his face, he turned. The look that his mentor levelled at him almost proved to be his undoing; it was so filled with sympathy and compassion. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes and his smile faltered.

"Jesse, son, are you alright?"

_Don't do this, Mark. _Jesse silently prayed. _Please, not now. I don't have time to deal with it right now._

Thankfully, he was saved from the need to answer when the doors crashed open behind him. The first of the casualties had arrived.

* * *

Steve went back to the hospital on his way home that evening. He was worried about Jesse and wanted to know if his father had had any luck in talking to their young friend.

However, the first person he encountered on his arrival was not Mark but a much less welcome face. Bill Burton sat on a chair in reception, looking bored. His eyes lit up when he saw Steve and he was on his feet in an instant.

"So, have you come to talk to your buddy about my brother?" he demanded – albeit with considerably less belligerence than he'd used towards Jesse.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Steve retorted, making no attempt to hide his dislike of the man.

"I've been waiting to talk to Travis for over an hour, but they reckon there's some kind of an emergency."

"This is a hospital. Emergency's do tend to crop up every now and then." Steve's voice dripped sarcasm. "What do you want with Jesse?"

"I want to know exactly what happened to my brother." Burton regarded the other man appraisingly. "You should be able to understand that. Didn't you say that you never stop looking when there's an unsolved murder?"

The detective returned his steady gaze, wondering how to best handle the situation. Given Jesse's fragile emotional state the last time he'd seen him, he didn't want Burton going anywhere near him.

"So that's how it is, huh?" Burton misinterpreted the lengthening silence. "You say you keep looking, but you soon stop when there's a chance you won't like what you might find."

"I asked some questions." The unmistakable slur got to Steve and he couldn't keep the defensive note out of his voice. "I looked. Your brother was killed by…"

"My brother was not killed by some thugs who just happened to wander onto his property." Burton laughed humourlessly. "And if you really believe that, then I don't know how you ever made Lieutenant. Friends in high places, Sloan?"

Steve bit down on his instinctive, outraged response. He knew when he was being goaded. Slowly, a smile spread across his face – a smile that would have had Burton seriously worried if he'd known the detective better.

Grabbing hold of Burton's arm – and leaving him with no choice but to comply – he dragged him into an empty room.

"You really wanna do this?" he snarled, tightening his grip on the other man's bicep. "You really want the whole world to know what happened all those years ago?"

"Your buddy…" Burton tried to hold onto his bluster, but Steve never gave him the chance.

"My buddy was twelve years old at the time." Steve was being deliberately intimidating; enjoying the way that Burton shrank away from him and figuring that it was at least a little payback for the way he'd treated Jesse. "He was a twelve year old kid who your brother was beating the crap out of on a regular basis."

Burton's lips were pressed into a thin line, but Steve knew that he hadn't been shocked by the revelation. His anger increased another notch.

"And _that's_ what the whole world will know." The detective smiled grimly at the look of disbelief that flashed across the other man's features. "You don't think so? You don't think the media will be interested when I start digging up a seventeen year old murder? The body would have to be exhumed, another post mortem performed. Do you really think that's not going to attract some attention? And what about the cops involved at the time? They'd have to be investigated – allegations of police corruption – the tabloids would have a field day. And how do you think they'd react when they found out that the whole circus was for the sake of one lousy child abuser?"

"My father wants to know the truth – he has that right."

Steve's eyes narrowed at the unexpected response. Burton had not leapt to his brother's defence – had shown no concern for the dead man's rights – but had only been interested in appeasing his dad. Old suspicions were replaced with new and he knew that he did, in fact, still have some more digging to do – and not only into Wayne Burton's death.

"You know what you should tell your father?" he snarled. "You should tell him that your brother got justice. He got exactly what he deserved. And you know something else? If I'd been around back then, I might have been the one wielding that shovel."

"You…" Burton's voice failed him as he realised that the detective meant every word he said.

"So, from now on, you stay well away from Jesse Travis," Steve continued, relentlessly. "You leave him the hell alone and let the past stay buried." He leaned in closer, his voice a low growl. "Because if you don't, then I will start digging. I will drag your brother's – and your family's – name through so much mud that it will never come clean. You might want to think about how your father would react to that."

Steve finally released his grip on Burton and allowed him to flee, but he didn't immediately follow him from the room. His mind was still in overdrive, his conscience nagging away at him. Burton had implied that he wouldn't investigate the murder simply because Jesse was involved. But then, Burton had already proved that he didn't know the detective very well. He had no intention of simply letting the matter drop. His dad had been right about that. First and foremost he was a police officer – and a good one too.

While he had meant what he said about Wayne Burton getting exactly what he'd deserved, he had made his threats against the family simply to keep the man away from Jesse. But, in his heart, he knew that he would not be able to rest until he discovered exactly who had meted out such swift justice.

He would investigate it quietly and he would spare Jesse from as much hurt as he possibly could. And when he did eventually learn the truth – well, then he would decide what to do with it.

* * *

Jesse hadn't intended to fall asleep but after eight long, gruelling hours – during which not every casualty had survived despite his efforts and his skill – sheer exhaustion had driven him to seek out coffee before he could even consider trying to drive home. Then, once he had arrived at the doctors' lounge, he had collapsed onto the couch and closed his eyes. Too tired to even fear his dreams, sleep had swiftly followed.

That was the sight that greeted Mark when he stopped by the lounge after his own lengthy stint in surgery. He smiled down at his slumbering friend before creeping over to the coffee pot.

"Hey, dad. Can I..?" Steve's voice came from the doorway.

"Sshh." Mark gestured towards the couch, holding one finger to his lips for emphasis. "I came in here to talk to him, but now I don't have the heart to wake him."

"When I saw him earlier, he looked dead on his feet. It's best to leave him be." Steve felt a fierce surge of protectiveness at the sight of his friend – who always looked so much younger than his years when he slept. Only now Steve could also see a vulnerability that he had never fully acknowledged before. "I don't know how he does it."

Mark smiled at his son's wry tone and glanced sidelong at him: "You're wondering how he can look so innocent when he's asleep and yet cause so much chaos when he's awake."

"No – although that is true." A brief smile touched his lips, but swiftly faded. "I was wondering how – after everything that he went through – he could still turn out to be the man that he is."

Mark didn't answer – somewhat surprised by his son's quiet words. He knew that Steve looked upon Jesse as more than a friend; he looked on him as the younger brother that he'd never had. But it was rare for him to openly admit to those feelings.

"I mean, he was beaten from pillar to post and then some." Steve's low voice barely even carried to Mark and there was no danger of it waking Jesse. "The things that that monster did to him…" He shook his head. "He could have been scarred for life and yet…"

"Oh, he was scarred, Steve – he was bound to have been." Both men's eyes were trained on the slumbering figure. "He's just very good at hiding it from us."

Further conversation was out of the question as Jesse began to show the first signs of stirring. Both Mark and Steve cursed inwardly. The last thing they had wanted to do was disturb their clearly exhausted friend.

However, it soon became obvious that their muted voices hadn't been responsible for the young doctor's awakening when his nose twitched appreciatively.

"Man, I could sure use a cup of that coffee," he mumbled, without opening his eyes.

"You look like you could use more than just a cup," Mark chuckled, moving to fix another cup of the restorative brew.

Steve hovered indecisively. He wanted to make some crack, some jokey remark, but was unsure how it would be received. The last time they had spoken, Jesse had been upset and had probably revealed far more about his childhood than he'd ever intended to. Steve knew his friend well and it was highly likely that the young doctor would be horrified that he had so lost control; even more so that it had been his best friend on the receiving end of his outburst.

Though the detective still had a myriad of questions that he was almost bursting to ask – particularly after his most recent confrontation with Bill Burton – he was wise enough to recognise that now was not the right time.

It would be for the best if he just quietly left and quelled his curiosity until a more suitable time. Leaving now would also save his friend from any further distress on what had clearly been a traumatic day. With a smile and a nod of farewell to his father he exited the room, just as Jesse sat up and cracked his eyes open.

Mark placed the two coffee mugs on the table and then closed the door before taking his seat. Jesse's eyes narrowed at the action, but he said nothing and the aroma of the coffee was too tempting for him to even consider just leaving. But there was still an unmistakable wariness to his movements as he joined his mentor.

"Well now, Jesse, hasn't it been one heck of a day?" Mark closed his eyes and rotated his neck, trying to relieve some of the tension that was building there.

Jesse merely smiled noncommittally, heedless of the fact that the older man couldn't see him. He wasn't sure whether he'd just been talking about the fire.

"I don't know about you, but I'm exhausted." Mark tried again, wincing and reaching up to massage his right shoulder as a muscle spasmed. "But, you know what? You can say what you want about the coffee in here, but at least it gives you that kick when you need it most. I think it's a special blend that's only available to overworked doctors."

"Yeah." Jesse felt the need to say something – Mark seemed to be expecting it of him – but he couldn't find any words that would remotely resemble a natural conversation.

"I think it might be the beans…" Mark mused, seemingly to himself.

"Mark, stop." As Mark's eyes finally opened, Jesse offered him a fleeting smile. "You didn't close the door so that you could talk to me about the coffee."

"No, Jesse, I didn't." He wasn't about to insult his young friend's intelligence by feigning ignorance. "I closed the door because I thought you might want someone to talk to – a friend. That's all."

The tormented young man forced himself to meet his mentor's eyes and he saw only compassion reflecting from them. At another time, he would have simply smiled and tried to convince Mark that everything was fine; that he could take care of himself like he always had – like he'd always been used to. But Mark had caught him at his most vulnerable. Upset, hurting and having just woken from insufficient sleep he simply lowered his eyes and said: "Then I guess Steve told you…"

"About your stepfather?"

The words were softly spoken, but had the most alarming effect as Jesse suddenly leapt to his feet.

"No!" he cried. "No, don't call him that! He never married my mom. He was never related to me!"

"Jesse, I'm sorry." Mark held out a supplicating – and hopefully calming – hand. This was not the start he'd been hoping for. "I didn't mean…"

The eruption swiftly subsided, leaving Jesse feeling thoroughly ashamed of his behaviour. He rubbed his hands over his face and slid back into his chair. "No, I'm sorry," he murmured. "I shouldn't have yelled at you. You weren't to know." Jesse shivered, but the chill that he suddenly felt had nothing to do with the temperature of the room. "I don't know why I never told you…" he continued, without looking at his mentor. "I mean, I don't why I never mentioned Uncle W… I mean, Wayne Burton…"

"I think we all have incidents in our past that it's not easy talking about," Mark said, carefully. "You don't have to explain."

"I guess…" Jesse cleared his throat and blinked rapidly to fight back sudden tears. "I guess if Steve told you… then he told you what he did."

"I know that he used to hit you."

"Yeah." Jesse wrapped his hands around his coffee mug and stared into its depths. "Then… I guess… I guess you know that he was… that he, um… I mean, you must know how he… that he was…"

"I know that he was killed, Jesse." Mark cut in, compassion prompting him to halt the stumbling flow of words. "And I know that it was murder."

"Oh." Jesse's voice was small and lost. As had so often recently been the case, he drifted back into the past: "The men… the men, they came and they killed him. It was the men…"

_What?_ Mark mentally backtracked over what he had just heard. Those hadn't been the words of a grown man approaching thirty years old – they had been the words of a child. Words, it seemed, that had been learnt by rote – just in case anyone ever decided to question him. He had seen it many times before: a speech so carefully rehearsed that it almost sounded like the truth – but he had rarely experienced such complete regression.

"Jesse?" Mark was at something of a loss, concerned by his friend's mental state. This really wasn't his field of expertise.

The young doctor blinked, a shudder suddenly wracking his frame and then he seemed to return to something resembling his normal self. He pinched the bridge of his nose as though fighting off a headache: "I'm fine," he murmured, unreassuringly. "I just… I don't like to… It's not something I like to talk about."

"You didn't talk about it back then, did you?" Mark saw the opportunity and took it. "At least not to the police."

"No."

"Did you talk to anybody? It must have been a nightmare for you. Did you get any help? Any counselling?"

"I…" Jesse tried a smile and felt it fail miserably. "My mom took care of me."

Mark had to bite his tongue against his angry response as to what he thought of Mrs Travis's actions and simply said, with a kindly smile: "I'm sure she did, Jesse."

"I wasn't even supposed to be there that summer," Jesse murmured, a faraway look in his eyes. "I mean, it wasn't all that long after the divorce and I was still seeing my dad quite a lot back then. I was supposed to be spending the holidays with him."

"Did he cancel on you?"

"Not even that. He just… never showed up. I guess he had someplace more important to be." There was an underlying note of bitterness in his voice that confirmed to Mark what Steve had already told him. Jesse still laid a lot of blame at his father's feet. "That was when Wayne…" He swallowed hard. "Well, I guess I'd ruined his plans for the summer. He… um, he…" Jesse fought back a fresh onslaught of tears, turning his face away from his mentor – not wanting to see the pity that would be on his face. "He beat me up real bad. Took his belt to me… I didn't even know what I'd done wrong…"

Mark ignored his instinct to offer a sympathetic response, even though his heart was hurting for his friend. He guessed that this was quite possibly the most that Jesse had ever said about what had happened and he didn't want to risk saying the wrong thing and bringing a halt to the faltering words.

"The next day…" the younger man continued, still in that same distant voice. "The next day he was gone."

Though Mark was feeling his way carefully through the situation, instinct told him that now was the right time for another careful question: "Did you see it happen, Jess?"

"Huh?" Jesse started violently, having been so lost in his memories that he'd forgotten that he wasn't alone. He stared blankly at Mark – knowing that he had been spoken to, but having no idea as to what might have been said.

"Were you there when Wayne Burton was killed?"

"Oh… um, no. I was… I was in my room." Mark's heart lurched at the loneliness that was encompassed in that one simple sentence. He guessed that, as a boy, Jesse had spent a lot of time alone in his room.

"Was your mom there?" he pressed, still keeping his tone infinitely gentle.

"I don't… I don't know where she was." The young blonde's voice had diminished again, making Mark strain to hear him. "She was there afterwards."

"Afterwards?" he prompted.

"She found him. She…" Jesse frowned at the vivid image his own words conjured in his mind. "She tried to keep me away, but… but I saw him."

Mark pursed his lips thoughtfully. The young man's hesitant words were doing little to shed any light on the mystery, but he was reluctant to push him too hard given his obviously fragile emotional state. He tried to find a delicate way of phrasing his next question – as to whether Jesse actually knew who had killed Wayne – but before he could say another word, the door opened.

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

Rating: T for violence/language.

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters of DM. I do own the ones I created.

Skeletons

Chapter Four

Amanda Bentley had just spent four days in Detroit at a conference. As was habit with her, she had called into Community General on her way home, to catch up on what she had missed during her absence. She had arrived not only to the usual plethora of gossip, but also to the news of the fire. Though she ached to go home and see her two sons, she couldn't resist a quick visit to the pathology lab to collect some files. It was her intention to read them that night, although she knew that – after her absence – she would most likely spend most of the time just watching her boys sleep.

Still a little jet-lagged, Amanda called into the doctors' lounge on her way across the hospital, seeking enough coffee to sustain her during the final leg of her journey home. Her mind was filled with a thousand other things and she didn't immediately pick up on the somewhat strained atmosphere in there.

"Hi, guys." Focussing only on the coffee pot, she barely spared a glance in their direction. "Do either of you want a refill?"

"Hey, Amanda! How was Detroit?" It was Jesse who responded, with typical – though somewhat forced – enthusiasm.

Mark silently cursed as the younger man's entire demeanour changed. It was as though their recent conversation had never happened and, while he too was pleased to see their mutual friend, he deeply regretted her timing.

"All I can say is that it's good to be back." Amanda answered, with a rueful smile. "It was…" She didn't even complete the sentence. Turning, with coffee in hand, she belatedly realised that something was wrong with the situation that she found herself in. Mark was not smiling. He hadn't even spoken to her. "Is something wrong?" Sudden worry made her voice overly shrill. "Has something happened?"

"Amanda…"

Mark's tone was grave and did little to allay her fears, but Jesse's reaction was even more worrying. He got quickly to his feet, his chair scraping noisily across the linoleum and the bright smile that he had greeted her with – that she now recognised to be false – had gone.

"I have to go." The words came out in a rush and he flashed Amanda an apologetic look before bolting from the room. He didn't even bother with any excuses – knowing that they would both see straight through his lies.

Mark opened his mouth to call after Jesse, but then realised that it would have been futile. He offered Amanda what he hoped was a reassuring smile as she took the seat that their friend had just vacated.

"What's going on?" Amanda asked, totally lost by the sudden turn of events and wondering what she had just walked in on. There was still an unmistakable tension in the air and her stomach churned at the thought that mentor and protégé might have had a serious falling-out. "I mean, I'm sorry if I interrupted…"

"It's okay, honey," Mark answered, his voice laden with weariness. "I think I was on the verge of losing him anyway."

"Mark?" There was no need for her to even ask the question. Her raised eyebrow was sufficient to demand an explanation.

"I'm sorry, Amanda." He was genuinely regretful. He could have used someone to talk to after what he had just been through with Jesse. "But it's a personal matter."

"Mark, I have been in this hospital for a little under an hour and, already, three people have told me that there was some guy in here threatening Jesse yesterday."

Mark shook his head in bemusement. The hospital grapevine never ceased to amaze him – and, on occasion, the speed with which rumours circulated bordered on frightening. He should have known that Bill Burton's visit would have set tongues wagging.

"It was… a face from the past, that's all," he hedged. "It just brought back some unpleasant memories for him."

"A face from the past?" Amanda echoed. Then compassion flashed in her eyes, before she hastily averted them. "Oh…"

"Amanda?" Mark was somewhat perturbed by her answer, wondering just what that insidious grapevine was saying. Though the gossip could be incredibly efficient, it wasn't always totally accurate.

"I, um…" She hesitated, not knowing what to say and unwilling to betray a confidence. "I know that it wasn't easy for him."

"Jesse told you?" Mark was quite simply amazed and he also felt a brief surge of jealousy that it had been Amanda and not him who Jesse had chosen to confide in.

"He didn't tell me anything," she began. "Well, not a great deal. It was more in what he didn't say."

"So, what exactly didn't he say?" Mark asked slyly, neatly manoeuvring her into the trap. He wasn't asking her to break a promise; wasn't asking her to repeat words that were spoken in private. Those were things that he knew she would never do.

Amanda sighed in exasperation. She should have known better than to verbally spar with Mark, but she was still hesitant about offering an explanation.

"Amanda, please." His look turned grave. "I'm really worried about him."

"It was one Christmas," Amanda recalled, prompted by the genuine concern that had been evident in Mark's voice. "You probably remember it. It was when you smuggled Claude Campbell away from that awful sheriff who insisted on trying to extradite him even after you'd proved his innocence."

Mark nodded, remembering that Christmas with crystal clarity. Steve had flown to Missouri in order to prove that Claude hadn't murdered his wife and then Amanda and Jesse had both helped in the conspiracy to get Claude to Mexico so that he could live his last few months in freedom and not back in jail awaiting a retrial. But his reminiscent smile was tinged with sadness. Claude had since died from the inoperable pancreatic cancer that he'd been diagnosed with at the time.

"In the middle of all that, Jesse's car got broken into and all the gifts that he'd brought for his family were stolen," the young pathologist went on. "Well, you know Jesse. He seemed to get over it and bounced right back, but he was really upset."

Again, Mark chose not to verbalise his response. Jesse's idea of bouncing back had been to offer the use of Barbeque Bob's to lay on the Christmas Eve meal for the homeless. It was indicative of his friend's big heart and generous nature – and the memory only served to drive Mark even harder to help him now, when he needed it so badly.

"So, a couple of days later, I invited him round for a drink and for the most part he was okay. He didn't talk much about his family, or about past Christmases and I didn't push him. Then I caught him watching Dion." A fond smile touched her lips as she thought of her adopted son, but then her eyes clouded over. "Jesse looked so sad and I couldn't even guess what might have been wrong. Dion was all excited, yammering away about what a great time he'd had. It was his first Christmas with us, so it had been a totally new experience for him." She didn't need to explain any further. Mark knew that Dion, too, came from an abusive background. "Anyway, I went up to put the boys to bed and when I came back down, I could have sworn that Jesse had been crying."

Mark had a good idea of what Amanda was leading up to, but he let her tell it in her own words.

"I asked him if he was okay and he started to make excuses about having to go. So, I…" She looked away, almost shamefacedly. "I, um… I encouraged him to have another beer and…"

"You got him drunk?" Mark asked in astonishment.

"No!" Amanda protested. Then at his disbelieving look she added: "Well, maybe a little bit. I just wanted to get him to relax. Anyway, I started talking about Dion and about how excited he'd been on Christmas morning. Then I said that he'd also been scared that he'd made too much noise and it was so hard to explain that he could make as much noise as he wanted. It was Christmas. And Jesse…" She sighed, sadly. "Jesse's eyes grew all distant, like he was remembering something and he said… He said 'nobody should be scared at Christmas'. He looked so desperately sad…" Amanda shook her head. "I'm sorry, Mark. I shouldn't be telling you this."

"Amanda." Mark caught her hand, stopping her as she began to rise from her seat. "I know that what you shared with Jesse was a very private thing. I've just had a very similar conversation with him myself. But, can you just answer me one question: did he tell you about the man who moved in after his father left?"

"Yes," the young woman answered, after the briefest hesitation. "Yes, he did, although not a great deal. That's what I meant by 'what he didn't say'. It was just obvious that it was that man who'd made him scared at Christmas."

"Not only at Christmas," Mark murmured.

"Mark, what's going on? That was years ago, when Jesse was just a little boy. Why is it all being dragged up now?"

Mark stroked his moustache, not hearing her question. He was processing what she had just told him and fitting it in with everything else that had happened.

"Amanda, you said that Jesse's eyes grew distant," he said, eventually and addressing the issue that was causing him the most immediate concern. "But what about his voice? Do you remember how he sounded?"

"How he sounded..?" Amanda frowned, striving to remember and knowing that Mark would not have asked if it hadn't been important. "He sounded… not frightened exactly…"

"Young?" Mark suggested, not wanting to put words into her mouth but needing to voice his own fears.

"Yes, that's exactly it," the young woman responded, as the memory fell into place. "He sounded just like a little boy, almost as though he'd gone back in time to that horrible Christmas. Mark, how could you know that? What's going on?"

She knew enough, Mark decided. She knew about Wayne Burton and she knew at least something about the abuse. He wouldn't be betraying Jesse in any way by bringing her up to date with more recent events. Jesse had confided in her once; maybe she was what he needed in order for him to open his heart again.

* * *

Jesse drove home much more slowly than he ordinarily would. It was so difficult for him to concentrate, not only because of his utter exhaustion, but his mind kept trying to convince him that he was twelve years old again.

"_Jesse, honey, I have to call the police now." His mom had taken him back to the house and they sat on the couch together._

"_The… the police?" His eyes were wide and frightened and kept drifting towards the window, in the direction of where he knew the corpse lay._

"_They're going to ask some questions, Jesse. I'm going to tell them that you weren't there, that you don't know anything, but they might still want to talk to you."_

"_Mom?" His voice was shrill with panic and his breath began to come in sharp gasps. The prospect of the police interrogating him was utterly terrifying to his young mind._

"_It's alright, sweetheart." His mom enveloped him in another hug. "It's going to be okay. You just need to know what to say if they do ask you anything."_

"_But… but…"_

"_Jesse, listen to me." A hint of sternness entered her voice and silenced his stuttering protests, her familiar authority having a strangely calming effect. "I'm going to tell you what happened and then you'll know what to say if anyone does talk to you. Okay?"_

"_O… Okay." He wasn't convinced and he wasn't even sure that he wanted to know the events of that afternoon._

Jess pulled the car to the side of the road and swiped an angry hand over his tear filled eyes. Seventeen years had passed, wasn't it time that he started behaving like the grown man that he was? Why did his own mind insist on torturing him so much?

"_There were three men, Jesse. Three men. They were trespassers, can you remember that? Uncle Wayne was killed when he got into a fight with the men. Alright? That's exactly what happened."_

His mom had continued talking to him in a soft, almost hypnotic, voice. She repeated herself over and over again, drilling certain words into his impressionable mind, making him say them back to her and then still repeating them again.

Then she had told him to go and wait in his room. The police had never talked to him and the words that she had taught him had never been spoken aloud – until Mark had caught him with his defences in tatters and had awoken that terrified child.

Jesse lowered his head and rested it against the steering wheel, reluctantly conceding that his memories weren't simply going to leave him alone. Bill Burton had made sure of that, so had Mark and Steve when they'd learnt of what had happened. There wasn't a chance that his friends were going to leave things well alone and – while a part of him was warmed by the care that this demonstrated – he inwardly dreaded the prospect of having to face even more questions.

That left him with the impossible task of finding something to tell them. The truth was not an option. But nor could he lie to them. His open, expressive face could conceal nothing from those he held closer than even his blood relatives.

Sighing bitterly, he reflected on the conversation that he'd had with Mark before he'd left the hospital.

"_The men… the men, they came and they killed him. It was the men…"_

It was all that he'd been able to say; all that his memory would allow him to say. But he knew that it would not be enough to satisfy his mentor's insatiable curiosity. He was, he knew, a lot like Mark and he could almost imagine what would be going through the older doctor's mind on hearing those words. He would have been itching to ask further questions, to probe ever so gently more deeply until he found the root of the problem.

Grateful for the respite from his painful memories, Jesse allowed his mind to drift. He let Mark's caring tones fill his mind and, for the first time in seventeen years, he asked himself the questions that everyone was so eager to know the answers to.

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

Rating: T for violence/language.

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters of DM. I do own the ones I created.

**Thanks, as ever, for the reviews.**

Skeletons

Chapter Five

Mark had eventually gone home that evening still desperately concerned about Jesse. Amanda had pledged to do whatever was necessary in order to help, but there was nothing that anybody could do that day and she too had gone home, eager to be reunited with her own family.

As Mark closed the door behind him, he saw Steve again sitting on the couch. The files from Elgin were still on the coffee table, but now they were stacked neatly to one side. However, Mark could see that his son was still brooding. He had his notebook open in his hand and was frowning over the contents.

"Steve?" he queried, feeling a knot of apprehension tightening in his stomach. The last time he had seen that expression on the detective's face it had preceded the devastation of Jesse's world.

"Bill Burton was at the hospital again today." Steve's tone was coloured by his obvious dislike of the man. "I tried to convince him to stay away from Jesse, but I get the feeling that he isn't simply going to go away. So I did a few checks." He flipped a page of the notebook. "William Burton is originally from Missouri, where his father runs a very successful construction company. He's forty-five years old, that's three years younger than Wayne would have been – had he lived."

"Did you find out why he's chosen now to start digging into his brother's death?" Mark asked.

"The only thing that I can think of is that his mother died last month. With Wayne already dead, that leaves him as the sole surviving heir to a rather tasty fortune."

"But that doesn't make sense," Mark mused. "I mean, Bill Burton knows that his brother is dead. There would have been a death certificate even with the murder case still officially open. It's just not logical."

"Logic kinda goes out of the window when there's several million dollars involved," Steve retorted, wryly.

"Several million?"

"Yeah. I talked to a few people and Arthur Burton's a ruthless businessman. He won't tolerate failure and, by all accounts, he brought his sons up the same way." He looked up at his dad, knowing that his next words might prove painful for the older man. "But apparently, Wayne had a serious argument with his father, not long before he moved to Elgin. It caused a serious rift and nobody in the family has ever spoken to him since."

Mark's eyes clouded over as he was reminded of the rift that had separated him from his daughter – and the subsequent events that had resulted in her death. It was very small comfort that they had managed to reconcile before her murder, but a comfort that the Burton family hadn't shared.

"I'm sorry, dad." Steve was genuinely regretful that he had awoken such painful memories. "But I didn't know if it might be important. Bill mentioned that it was his dad who wanted answers, he didn't seem to care overly much himself."

"It's certainly strange." Mark snapped himself out of his melancholy and turned his thoughts back to where they might do some good. "Although, I suppose that with his wife dying, it might have woken up some old regrets. Maybe she even wished for it before she died. Maybe that's what prompted him to try and find out exactly what had happened to his firstborn son. And he's charged Bill with finding out."

"From what I saw, there might be more riding on this than a simple need for answers," the detective muttered. "Something was certainly motivating Bill and it wasn't a quest for justice."

"You think this might have something to do with the inheritance?"

"I'm only guessing but, if I'm right, then that could make him dangerous."

* * *

Bill Burton was also brooding. After his latest abortive attempt to speak to Jesse, he had phoned his father and the conversation had not gone well. Having been blocked so effectively by Steve in his effort to find out the truth, he had tried to fob his dad off with the story about the anonymous trespassers. It hadn't worked. Bill was a hopeless liar as far as the old man was concerned. Even speaking over the telephone, it seemed that his father could read him like a book and his scorn at the attempted explanation had left him cringing. He hadn't risked trying any more lies.

Just remembering that conversation was enough to send a shiver running down Bill's spine. His father's voice was almost as terrifying as his fists – and he had also left him in no doubt that he would not receive a single penny until he got the answers that were demanded of him.

There was no doubt in Bill's mind that his dad would indeed give everything that he owned to charity and, while there was a chance that he might fight such a thing through the courts, that would prove to be both costly and time-consuming. It would be so much easier if he could merely uncover the truth.

He tried to think like his father. What would Arthur Burton do in a situation such as this? The answer was simple. He would use whatever means necessary to get results. That was how he had earned his fearsome reputation.

Steve's enquiries had barely scratched the surface of the formidable character of the man. He was a ruthless, domineering bully who ruled his household with an iron fist – a fist that he was not afraid to raise in his endless pursuit of discipline. That was why he had not been surprised to learn that Wayne had followed so closely in his footsteps.

Bitterness surged through his soul as he wondered if – had the situation been reversed – his father would have been so driven about learning his fate. Wayne had always been the favourite. He was the eldest after all, the natural heir.

As brothers they had not been close, even before the split – and he was determined that he was not going to let his sibling ruin his life by denying him what was rightfully his.

Jesse Travis had the answers, he was certain of it. He just had to find some way to make him talk – and he had to do it quickly. His father was not renowned for his patience.

* * *

"_What happened, Jesse? What happened all those years ago that can leave you so scared now?"_

It was Mark's voice that spoke in his mind, Mark's gently commanding tones that he could never deny, never ignore and never lie to. But nor could he answer that question. He hadn't been there. He had been in his room.

"_But your mom was there, wasn't she? You said she tried to stop you from seeing the body. Was she there, next to Wayne, when you found him?"_

Jesse frowned to himself. No, that wasn't what had happened. His mom had called him downstairs and told him that there had been an accident, that Wayne was dead. Then he had been running; running as fast as he ever had in his life before, not knowing how he chose the right direction, but needing to see that it was true. He had stumbled across the corpse in a matter of minutes.

"_Was there anyone else there, Jesse? Did you see the trespassers, the men who were supposed to have killed him?"_

Mark's voice was more insistent, more urgent and – alone in his car – Jesse shook his head in response. No, it had been just him – just him for the few scant seconds it had taken for his mom to catch up with him. Then he had been smothered by her embrace as she'd sobbed her apologies and told him that everything would be okay when, in truth, nothing could ever be okay again.

"_Her apologies?"_

Jesse's eyes suddenly opened and Mark's voice was abruptly silenced as he asked the question that Jesse had spent the last seventeen years trying not to think about. He could ignore it no longer. Even though he wasn't there, his mentor had made sure of that.

Why had his mom apologised so profusely? She claimed not to have known what Wayne was doing to him but, if that was the truth, then why did she feel the need to apologise?

* * *

"You know, it would make life a whole lot simpler if I knew the answers to the questions that Burton's been asking," Steve griped, pausing in the pacing that he had recently begun. After he had voiced his suspicion that Burton might be dangerous, he had made some more enquiries and was anxiously waiting for his colleagues to get back to him.

"If that's your way of asking if Jesse told me anything, then I'm afraid that the answer's no." Mark's voice was calmer, but there was an unmistakable tension in the air, mostly down to the fact that they had absolutely no idea of Burton's whereabouts. "And, after talking to him today, I'm not convinced that he has those answers."

"Dad, the guy was murdered. It's not the sort of thing you just forget about."

"That's not what I'm saying." Mark sought to soothe his son's growing agitation. "I think that Jesse can't remember what happened because his own mind is protecting him from the truth. Whenever he tries to talk about the day that Burton was killed, it's like he retreats back into himself, back to when he was that child. It's his way of shielding himself from what really happened."

"But why would he do that?" Steve demanded, even more put out by what he saw as his father's descent into psycho-babble.

"Maybe because the truth is too awful for him to accept." At the sceptical look that was aimed in his direction, he added: "Those barriers are in place for a reason, Steve and we're going to have to be very careful about breaking them down." He paused, making the decision that had been nagging at him ever since he'd witnessed Jesse's earlier regression. "I'm going to suggest that he gets professional help."

"You want him to see a shrink?" The detective's tone eloquently portrayed what he thought of that idea.

"Not a shrink," Mark protested. "Just somebody more qualified to help him than I am."

"Good luck," Steve muttered, sardonically. Then he turned his baleful glare back to the phone, which steadfastly refused to ring, no matter how hard he willed it to. "Dammit!" he snapped. "How long can it take them to figure out where this guy is staying?" His most recent call had been to try and track down Burton's LA accommodation. "With his kind of money, it's hardly likely that he's checked into some sleazy, no-questions-asked motel."

"That would depend entirely on his motive for being here." Mark wasn't deliberately trying to add to his son's agitation, but he needed to voice his fears. "And how far he's prepared to go to get those answers."

"That's it. I'm calling Jesse." He snatched at the phone, but Mark's hand covered his before he could lift the receiver.

"Steve, it's after midnight – and Jesse was at the hospital before six o'clock this morning. You can't disturb him now."

"You're right," Steve reluctantly conceded, forcing his taut muscles to relax. "But I'd feel a whole lot better if I knew where Burton was and I could have somebody keeping an eye on him."

"So would I, son," Mark murmured in response. "So would I."

* * *

Jesse would never know how he made it back to his apartment that night. After he had asked himself that one question about his mom, everything else had ceased to exist. She had sworn to him that she knew nothing about the abuse that he had endured and he had believed her – until now.

He couldn't even describe the emotion that held him as he burst through his front door and grabbed for the phone. He wasn't thinking at all rationally. The question burned into his mind, making everything else irrelevant. He just wanted to talk to his mom. He only wanted to know one thing: why was she sorry?

He didn't pause to wonder what time it might be in Illinois; didn't give a moment's thought as to what he intended to say. It hurt him enough that he had to look her number up before dialling.

With a sinking heart, Jesse was eventually forced to concede that she wasn't going to answer. He'd let the phone ring for well over a dozen times, gripping the receiver so hard that it bit into his palm. Unbidden tears welled in his eyes before, belatedly, he recalled the words that Bill Burton had said to him on their first, fateful encounter.

His mom was in Europe and it only served to stab at his already wounded soul that a stranger would know of her vacation when her own son did not. How could he not know where she was? How could he have no idea how to contact her? What if there had been an emergency?

Jesse shook his head and wandered into his bedroom. Bad things had happened in the past, but she was still his mom. Kicking off his shoes, he sat down on the bed, wondering if there was any point in him even getting undressed. Sleep, he knew, would be more elusive than ever.

Old and new regrets clouded his mind and at the back of everything, even overshadowing the questions that still burned, there were always the nightmares waiting to pounce the moment that he dared to close his eyes.

* * *

"Dad, I've got to go. There's finally been a break on the Sorenson killing." Steve ended the call on his cellphone and grabbed at his jacket. "The DNA testing looks like it might have paid off. Don't wait up."

"Be careful." Mark's response was automatic, as was the sudden fear that churned in his gut. He had never allowed himself to become complacent about his son's choice of career and was only too aware of the dangers that he faced on any assignment. The fear, he knew, would stay with him until Steve returned home again.

"I will." He opened the front door. "And dad? If you see Jesse tomorrow, can you at least warn him?"

The detective didn't even wait for a response. The Sorenson case had dragged on for three weeks and had resulted in wide-range DNA testing on thousands of local men. Now that it seemed to have given them a break, he wanted to be there when any arrest was made.

Mark stared at the door long after his son had disappeared through it, thinking over his last words. Yes, Jesse needed to be warned, but that was easier said than done. His friend was already in a world of hurt. How could he give him one more thing to worry about when it was obvious that he already couldn't sleep at night?

Closing his eyes, he thought back to the conversation that he'd had with Amanda earlier that day. She had said that Wayne had been around at Christmas, but he hadn't been killed until the summer. That meant that he had been living in Jesse's home – and abusing him – for at least six months. It almost defied belief.

Unaware that his young friend was asking himself the very same questions, Mark wondered how anybody could be blind to their own child being mistreated for such a long time.

And it wasn't just Jesse's mom who was giving him cause for concern. What about his dad? Surely he must have known something.

The more that Mark thought about it, the more he was prepared to believe that Dane knew nothing about the abuse that his son had suffered – he would never have let such a thing continue and he most certainly had the means and the methods to do something about it. But how could he not know that a man had been murdered at the place that had so recently been his home?

He must have had some contact with his family. There was the alimony to pay and visits to be arranged – even if those visits didn't always actually take place. And he would have had friends back in his home town. Not to mention that, by the very nature of his work, he would have access to all kinds of information.

It was simply inconceivable that he couldn't know about Wayne Burton. It just didn't add up and, in Mark's vast experience, when something didn't add up it normally meant that he'd got a calculation wrong.

* * *

Jesse was sleeping. Exhaustion had won out and he had swapped his work clothes for the sweatpants and tee shirt that were his habitual nightwear and had crawled into bed, utterly convinced that it was futile; that sleep would remain as elusive as ever. His eyes had closed almost immediately.

_He squeezed his eyes more tightly shut and a low moan escaped his lips. It was the nightmare again; the nightmare that had plagued him every night since he'd looked down upon Wayne's lifeless body. And even though he knew that he was dreaming, he could do nothing to stop what was bound to follow._

_Wayne's eyes were open and one was caked with blood where it had run down from the gaping wound in his head. Those eyes stared blankly upwards and his bluing lips were drawn back in a frozen scream that could only hint at the terror and the agony that he had endured._

"_It was the men, Jesse…"_

_The boy whimpered softly. The men. The trespassers. The nameless, faceless killers who had invaded his home._

_What if they came back?_

_Jesse gasped in a frightened breath and tore his gaze away from the corpse. In his nightmare, he was alone. There was no sign of his mom and, deep inside, he harboured the secret terror that the men had killed her too. And he was going to be next._

_A noise from his left caused his head to whip around in that direction. There was some undergrowth, the fence and then the road. He could see nothing else, but he knew that the men were there._

"_Oh, God…"_

_Another louder noise from behind him and he took to his heels, running in the direction of the house._

"_Please, God. Please, God. Please…" An endless litany spilled from his lips, even though he expected no response. He had offered desperate prayers before._

_He burst through the front door and raced up the stairs, taking them three at a time, trying to ignore the way his lungs felt ready to burst and seeking the sanctuary of his room. He reached that haven and slammed the door behind him – too late realising that it had no lock. _

_Jesse stood in the centre of his room, his eyes darting wildly around as he sought some place to hide. He heard the door creak open behind him and knew that it was too late._

_A hand landed heavily on his shoulder…_

And his eyes shot open, a scream of terror dying on his lips before it could emerge. Jesse lay in the darkness, his heart pounding in his chest as he waited for the residual images of his nightmare to flee.

Then he blinked, a frown settling on his brow. Everything looked wrong. He wasn't in his room and fresh terror swelled in his chest. He rolled over, trying to make some sense of what was happening – and then reality kicked in.

The strange shapes that had so frightened and confused him began to take on a more familiar form and he let out a slow, shaky breath.

No, he wasn't in his room. At least not his bedroom back in Elgin. He was in his apartment and he was twenty-nine years old. And he had just suffered a nightmare that had plagued him for months following Wayne's death – and that he had not suffered for over a decade since.

But something was still not right. Something was out of place and it was that something that had awoken him.

Jesse barely had the time to register the presence of somebody else in the room. There was a sudden rush of movement, a dark shape descending towards him and then pain exploded in his head.

Darkness swiftly followed.

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

Rating: T for violence/language.

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters of DM. I do own the ones I created.

**Sorry for the delay in posting this chapter, but life got in the way! Thanks, as ever, for the reviews.**

Skeletons

Chapter Six

When Jesse returned to consciousness, the first thing he became aware of was the pain in his head. Next, he gradually realised that he was moving and the combination of the two prompted a sudden surge of nausea. Bile rose up in his throat and he heaved helplessly, his stomach cramping in sympathy. Suddenly he was choking, trying to swallow and unable to breathe. Panic set his heart racing as he realised that there was a gag across his mouth.

He convulsed as the bile clogged in his throat, cutting off his airway and he began to struggle, wanting to tear the obstruction free – wanting to breathe. Sudden, sharp pain in his wrists and the inability to move his arms told him that his hands had been tied behind his back and his struggles increased, his legs kicking weakly in the enclosed space that he was trapped in.

_Swallow_, he commanded himself, even as he gagged again on the bitter tasting bile. _Swallow it and then breathe._

The voice in his head was strangely calm and he followed the instructions that it gave him. Breathing in through his nose, he filled his lungs and willed himself not to heave again. He was silently thankful that he hadn't taken the time to eat anything substantial that day, or he would surely have choked to death.

His panic subsiding only marginally, Jesse took a moment to try and work out what had happened. Somebody had hit him, but he had no idea as to who it might have been, or why they had taken him.

And he couldn't see. He moved his head, felt it brush against rubber that had grown clammy with his sweat. He didn't seem to be blindfolded, but he lay in utter darkness.

He shifted again and soft material brushed against his face. He was stiflingly hot, there was a weight upon him that didn't belong there and he felt suddenly claustrophobic.

_Don't panic_. The calm voice returned to him. _They've covered you with a blanket. They're keeping you hidden, that's all. Don't panic._

Forcing his breathing to slow, negating the risk of choking again, he returned to trying to take stock of his situation. The noises he could hear and the gentle motion that he felt told him that he was in a car. The cramped position that he lay in and the discomfort of a ridge against his hip suggested that he was lying on the floor in the foot well of the rear of the vehicle.

Sound was the only of his senses that was any good to him and he strained his ears, in a futile attempt to gain further clues as to who might have kidnapped him.

The motion of the car changed and Jesse was rocked gently in the confined space in which he lay. Muffled, indecipherable sounds filtered though the blanket and then both the movement and the engine noise ceased. The car rocked again and there was the unmistakable sound of a door slamming. Jesse's heart quickened in his chest and his panic threatened to overwhelm him.

Suddenly he was blinking rapidly as the blanket was pulled from him and harsh white light assaulted his eyes. Rough hands grabbed him by the upper arms and dragged him backwards out of the car, before dumping him unceremoniously onto the ground. He lay sprawled on his back, with his arms trapped beneath him and stared up at fluorescent strip lighting.

It was a garage, he gradually realised. He wanted to raise his head, wanted to try and catch a glimpse of his captor, but the lights and the movement had redoubled the throbbing in his head and he was again fighting his nausea, which had returned with a vengeance.

Then he heard footsteps – slow, deliberate footsteps that were gradually drawing closer. His mouth went dry with fear and his heart threatened to burst out of his chest. A shadow loomed over him.

"So, you're finally awake." Bill Burton glowered down at him. "I was starting to think that I'd hit you too hard."

* * *

The beach house was in darkness when Steve eventually arrived back home, exhausted but satisfied with his night's work. He let himself in quietly, anxious not to disturb his dad. Neither of them had been getting very much sleep lately.

Though the Sorenson case had kept his mind occupied throughout the night, he hadn't forgotten about Jesse and he glanced towards the phone, wondering if his colleagues had succeeded in tracking down Bill Burton.

It fleetingly crossed his mind to call in and check and he even went so far as picking up the receiver, but he stopped short of actually dialling. If there had been any news then his dad would have taken a message. Mark, being known by so many cops, might even have advised them about the situation. It wouldn't do to keep on at them for something that was, in all probability, already in hand.

Besides, the threat to Jesse was little more than a bad feeling in his gut – a cop's instinct. It hardly constituted an emergency.

* * *

Jesse could only stare up at the man who towered over him. Terror held him completely paralysed. The calm voice of reasoning that had helped him survive in the car had deserted him and panic held him in a merciless grip.

_Uncle Wayne!_

It was impossible, it was totally irrational and yet… A whimper escaped from behind the gag and he was powerless to prevent it. He had thought that Bill looked familiar when he'd first seen him and now he knew why. Take twenty years off him and he was Wayne.

Burton bent closer and Jesse cringed, fearing a blow – but none was forthcoming. Instead, his captor grabbed hold of the neck of his tee shirt and hauled him upwards.

"On your feet," he snarled, using brute force to ensure compliance. "I'm damned if I'm carrying you another step."

Jesse struggled to get his feet under him. The rough concrete of the floor beneath his soles reminded him that he was barefoot. He had been hauled from his bed and still wore only his nightclothes. That thought only served to make him feel even more young and vulnerable.

Oblivious to his captive's deteriorating emotional state, Burton dragged Jesse though a door and into the kitchen, snapping on the light as he passed it. Once in there, he paused. His plan had involved getting the doctor somewhere private – somewhere that they wouldn't be disturbed – so that he could demand the truth, without having to worry about Steve Sloan's interference. Beyond that, he had very little idea as to how he was going to go about getting that truth. He just wanted to scare Travis enough to be sure that he wasn't lying to him.

The question was: how to do that. He didn't have the stomach for torture, though he wasn't averse to a little intimidation and the occasional use of his fists.

He glanced towards Jesse, thinking that he wouldn't take much intimidating – and then frowned at what he saw. The young doctor was trembling violently and a thin sheen of sweat coated his brow. His eyes were wide and frightened, but he wasn't looking at the man who held him. Instead, he was staring intently at a point opposite where they stood.

Following that frightened gaze, Burton saw the cellar door, which stood open – the steps just visible as they led down into the darkness. A nasty smile touched his lips.

So, Wayne really had taken after the old man. Even though he was in his forties, the cellar at his father's house still had the ability to inspire terror in him. Many of his misdemeanours – real or imagined – had resulted in him spending hours locked in that cold, dark place. It seemed that Wayne had used a similar line of punishment. Burton saw the opportunity and took it. Gripping Jesse more firmly by the arm, he dragged him towards the open door.

Jesse saw Burton's intention immediately and he began to struggle, trying to dig in his heels, trying to do anything to stop their inexorable progress across the cold, tiled floor. His breathing became laboured, hampered as it was by the gag and his terror had increased until it was all encompassing. Childhood nightmares were thrust rudely to the front of his mind.

"_Your mom works hard to get you nice things," Wayne snapped, hauling Jesse across the lounge by one arm. "Is it too much to ask for you to keep them nice?"_

_Jesse couldn't find his voice to protest. He was too scared, anticipating another beating. Wayne had caught him watching TV, with his feet up on the couch. His mom had never complained about him sitting like that, provided that he'd taken off his shoes, but to Wayne it was another sin – another excuse for him to exert his power over the boy._

"_You want to see what it's like not to have nice things?" He marched them through the kitchen and towards the cellar. "I'll show you what it's like and maybe then you'll appreciate what you have got."_

_Wayne switched on the cellar light, but the weak bulb did little to illuminate the room below. There were still too many dark corners, too many deep shadows. Jesse balked at the top of the stairs, real fear making his heart pound and his hands grow clammy._

"_I… I'm sorry…" he stammered, knowing that it was futile, but needing to try. "Please don't… Please…"_

"_You scared, boy?" Wayne sneered. "You should be. You wouldn't believe the sort of thing that can live down there." He still had hold of Jesse's arm, but their progress had halted. "There's spiders down there as big as your fist. They've got webs that could trap a cat. And there's rats, too. Big, ugly rats with teeth like razors. And bugs – lots and lots of bugs."_

"_Please… Uncle Wayne…" _

"_Get down there!" He shoved at the boy, causing him to stumble down the first few steps. "Get down there before I throw you down."_

_Too terrified to disobey and knowing that the man was fully capable of carrying out his threat, Jesse hesitantly descended the steps, all the while looking around fearfully. The floor of the cellar was cluttered with junk and a thick layer of dust coated everything. It looked like nobody had been there in years._

"_And don't forget the dead bodies." Wayne's mocking voice floated down to him. "Don't you know that people always bury dead bodies in the cellar?" He laughed maliciously. "I'll let you out when I think you've learned your lesson."_

_The room was suddenly plunged into pitch darkness and a frightened cry escaped Jesse's lips. A moment later the door was slammed and he clearly heard the sound of the key being turned in the lock._

Burton tightened his grip as Jesse's frantic, futile struggles persisted. The doctor was wild-eyed with fear and small sounds of distress could be heard even through the gag.

"You don't wanna go down there, huh?" Even the voice could have been Wayne's. It was older and deeper, but still filled with the same malicious spite.

Jesse could only shake his head, helplessly. Wayne had left him locked in the dark all night.

"Then I'll make it easy for you." Burton grabbed hold of Jesse's chin, forcing his eyes away from the door that they had been riveted on. "You tell me exactly what I want to know and you can walk out of here. And I don't think I need to warn you not to go to the cops because, if you do, I will find you and I'll bring you back here and I'll leave you down there until you starve to death. You got that?" He didn't wait for any response, but ripped the tape that was gagging Jesse from his mouth. "What happened to my brother?"

Jesse sucked in a desperate lungful of air. As it had become harder and harder to breathe, the very real fear of suffocating had only added to his panic. His tongue flicked out to lick at his too dry lips.

"Who killed my brother?" Bill grasped the doctor by the shoulders and shook him as he repeated his demand. Blue eyes hesitantly met his, but they contained only fear and confusion.

"Please…" Jesse whispered, barely able to comprehend what was happening. A part of him was still lost in the nightmares of the past. The rest of him was consumed by utter terror.

The Burton family weren't renowned for the hold they had on their tempers and Bill was no exception. When only silence greeted him, he backhanded Jesse across the mouth.

"Answer me, dammit!"

Jesse cringed, his head swimming with pain and his mouth filled with the coppery taste of blood. His eyes were distant and unfocussed – lost somewhere long ago, where Wayne Burton wasn't dead and the cycle of abuse was never-ending.

"Fine." Burton's temper transformed into a cold rage. "Have it your way." He reached back up to affix the tape to Jesse's mouth, easily stilling his attempts to squirm free. "Let's see if you feel more talkative when you've had a couple of hours to think about it."

Again, Jesse tried to struggle as they resumed their slow progress across the kitchen, but he was no match for Burton. Another sharp blow to his head caused him to stagger and a hard shove to his back propelled him the rest of the way towards their uncommon goal.

* * *

Mark was in the kitchen making coffee when the door to the downstairs apartment opened and Steve emerged. He fetched another mug, filled it and handed it to his son.

"What time did you get home last night?" he asked. By unspoken agreement, they both went out onto the deck. It was a beautiful morning.

"Late," Steve answered and then frowned. "Or early, depending on how you look at it."

Mark chuckled softly. He, too, had had a late night. Or an early morning.

"But it was worth it." The detective massaged the back of his neck with one hand, his spine stiffening in a half stretch. "We arrested Ed Lindsay and, faced with the DNA evidence, he eventually confessed. How was your night?"

"Difficult," the older man confessed after a momentary pause. "I was trying to get in touch with Dane Travis."

"Dane?" Steve frowned, wondering what had prompted such an action. "Why Dane?"

"I can't believe that he wouldn't know anything about Wayne Burton. The man was killed in his family home. And I thought it would be a lot easier for everyone involved if we didn't have to keep pestering Jesse for answers."

"What did you find out?"

"Nothing." Mark answered, on a dispirited sigh. "I never even spoke to him. He's a difficult man to track down."

"I'll bet he is." Steve shook his head, silently thankful for his close relationship with his own father. "Didn't he give Jesse a number for use in emergencies?"

"I tried that, but I just kept getting redirected." Unknowingly, his train of thought followed his son's exactly and he flashed him a fond glance. "I've left messages for him, but there's no telling when – or if – he'll get them."

Steve caught the look and returned it. They didn't need to vocalise how they both were feeling at that moment; it was apparent in the warmth that they shared.

"Was there any news on Bill Burton's whereabouts?" he asked, remembering the conversation they'd had before he'd been called into work. After that, the arrest and subsequent interrogation had kept him incommunicado for most of the night.

"Oh, Steve, I'm sorry." Guilt flashed across the older man's features. "I was so busy trying to contact Dane, I must have kept the phone line tied up for hours. If your colleagues were trying to reach you, they wouldn't have got through."

"That's okay, dad. I'm heading into work soon. I'll get someone to chase it up then."

* * *

Jesse sat with his back against a wall, still bound and gagged but no longer even registering that discomfort. He didn't even register the cold that his scant attire offered little protection from. Silent tears streamed down his cheeks.

Burton had dragged him down the stairs and dumped him there. Then he had turned the light off and locked the door.

There was no comfort for him, no place to hide. The entire episode was too reminiscent of what Wayne had done to him – of the terror that he had instilled in him. And he was forced to relive every agonising moment.

_The darkness was impenetrable. Jesse couldn't even see a chink of light to hint at where the door might be. The light switch was at the top of the stairs, but he didn't dare try to reach it, didn't dare risk disturbing what might be lurking in the darkness._

"_Spiders as big as your fist…"_

_He turned slowly, completely disorientated. He had no idea in which direction the staircase even lay. His foot brushed against something and he flinched away, crying out in fear as he imagined it was one such spider – or a giant rat with teeth like razors._

_The dust that he'd disturbed settled against his skin and he flinched again, more violently, feeling thousands of tiny feet crawling over him, from thousands of tiny bugs. Unbalanced, he stumbled and tripped over one of the countless pieces of junk that littered the floor. Instinct caused him to throw his arms out, to try and prevent himself falling. When his hand came into contact with something soft and yielding, his imagination immediately conjured up the picture of a rotting corpse._

_Jesse screamed, jerking his hand free and staggering blindly backwards._

"_Shut up, kid." Wayne's voice sounded through the door. "Or I'll come down there and shut you up." _

_Jesse rammed his fist into his mouth, biting on the knuckle and forcibly stopping his sobs from escaping. He backed up until he felt a wall behind him and then slid into a crouch. Drawing his knees up to his chest, he hugged them close to him._

_He stayed like that all night._

* * *

Mark walked in to the hospital later that morning and was directed almost instantly to the ER.

"It's chaos down there," the receptionist told him, somewhat breathlessly.

Mark frowned to himself as he hurried towards his destination. He knew that Jesse was on duty that morning and it was totally unlike his friend not to be able to cope with an emergency. Though, given the young doctor's current circumstances, he supposed he could hardly blame him. The reawakening of such deeply buried memories – the ghosts that he was being forced to confront – were bound to have an adverse effect on anyone. But still, it was unlike Jesse not to act at the height of professionalism, no matter what personal issues he had to contend with.

He soon arrived at the ER and saw, with a sinking heart, that the receptionist had not been exaggerating. Gurneys lined the corridors, all of them filled with people suffering injuries of varying severity. At least it seemed like there was some form of triage in effect, but it wasn't the sort of efficiency that he would normally expect from his former protégé.

Gradually, the details of what had happened emerged to him. There had been a pile-up on the freeway, in the middle of the early morning rush hour. The screaming of sirens drawing inexorably nearer told him that they had still not yet received all of the casualties.

Grabbing a pair of surgical gloves, he headed straight for the heart of the action.

"Who's in charge here?" His calm authority had an immediate effect, as every eye turned towards him and there was a discernible reduction in the air of barely repressed panic that he had sensed on his arrival.

"Doctor Sloan, thank God."

Mark turned, frowning in confusion as he recognised the voice that had responded to his query and Sara Chaney emerged from the throng. She was a second year resident and, though competent, did not have the experience for the situation that she'd found herself in.

"Sara, where's Doctor Travis?" he demanded, having no time to spare for small talk.

"I don't know, sir," she answered, her relief at having someone there to take over evident in her voice. "Nobody's seen him."

"And Doctor Sharman?" he added, after pausing long enough to remember the duty roster for that week.

"He's already in the OR. Doctor Sloan, we're being overrun. I've got more people needing surgery than we can handle – and we're running out of beds."

"It's okay, Sara." After the fire the previous day, another large scale emergency was always going to stretch their resources. It was no reflection on her ability that she had been unable to cope. Both he and Jesse would have struggled under such extreme pressure.

As Sara explained the measures that she had already put in place, he nodded in silent approval. She had done as well as anyone could have expected. Not having the time to offer more than a brief word of praise, he caught hold of a passing orderly: "Get on to the front desk," he told him. "Have them call up every doctor that we have on staff and get as many of them in here as possible. And keep trying to get hold of Doctor Travis."

He didn't have time to worry about his young friend, didn't have time to wonder over his inexplicable absence. He could only hope that the explanation was something simple. Maybe Jesse's exhaustion had finally caught up with him and he had merely overslept; maybe the smash on the freeway had left him caught in traffic. He had to forcibly ignore the trepidation that churned in his gut – the instinct that told him all was not well. There were too many patients who needed him.

TBC


	7. Chapter 7

Rating: T for violence/language.

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters of DM. I do own the ones I created.

**Thanks, as ever, for the reviews. You people really know how to make my day!**

Skeletons

Chapter Seven

Bill snapped on the cellar light, all the while keeping his eyes glued to his captive and revelling in the way that the man flinched and tried to protect his eyes from the sudden illumination.

Descending the stairs, he dropped into a crouch in front of Jesse. The bound man was paralysed by terror and – so far – he'd hardly had to lay a hand on him. This was going even better than he'd dared hope and he could almost smell the money that would be headed his way.

"Have you learned your lesson yet, boy?" he demanded, pulling the gag free again. Though he hadn't done it intentionally, he had echoed the exact words that Wayne had used when he'd finally seen fit to release the child Jesse from his confinement – the same words that their father had used when inflicting his punishment.

Jesse nodded minutely and cast his eyes downwards. Sometimes he had found that contrition was the safest course of action. Of course, that wasn't always the case. Sometimes whatever he chose to do was wrong. This was one such occasion.

Rough hands grabbed his shoulders and jerked him forwards away from the meagre security of the wall against his back.

"Look at me dammit!" Burton's fingers tightened cruelly and he gave the bound man a shake. The blonde head lifted, but unfocussed and glassy eyes stared straight through him. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

When Jesse remained unresponsive, Burton's short temper snapped again. A violent slap to his cheek rocked the blonde head back, but still his eyes stayed eerily distant. He shook him again – harder – and followed it up with another brutal slap.

"Dammit, you will answer me, you little shit." Burton surged upwards, dragging Jesse with him. He bunched the fabric of the tee shirt in his fist, almost lifting the smaller man off his feet. "What happened to my brother?"

Jesse was physically incapable of answering him. He hadn't heard a single word that Burton had said and even the renewed pain barely penetrated the shock that had taken hold of him.

Burton didn't know any of this – he couldn't recognise the symptoms. With an angry snarl, he shoved Jesse back against the wall, the force of impact driving all the breath from his body. He followed up with a roundhouse punch to his stomach that ensured it almost impossible for him to catch it back again. Instinct caused his victim to try and double over, but Burton didn't let him. Grabbing him by the throat, he pinned him to the wall.

"I'm going to count to three," he muttered, his face very close to Jesse's. "And if you don't tell me exactly what I want to know, then I'm going to stop playing games here." He paused for effect. "One… Two… Three…"

* * *

The ringing of his cellphone was a distraction that Mark didn't need, but nor was it one that he could ignore. He dragged it out of his pocket even as he directed another laden gurney towards a vacant trauma room.

"Mark Sloan," he answered, curtly. Though other doctors had arrived, the crisis was far from over and his eyes moved constantly, ensuring that his orders were being carried out.

"Dad, it's me."

"Steve?" Mark stopped dead in his tracks, focussing more intently on the call. There was an undercurrent of tension in his son's voice that demanded his full attention. "What's wrong?"

"Dad, is Jesse there with you? Is he there, at the hospital?"

"No…" His tension suddenly increased a thousandfold and he felt his stomach clench with dread. "No, he should be, but nobody's seen him. Steve, what's wrong? What's happened?"

"Uniform were called out to a routine break-in this morning, reported by a neighbour." Mark frowned to himself at the seeming inanity of the response, but didn't interrupt. "Somebody mentioned it to me because they recognised the address as being Jesse's."

"Is he alright?"

"I don't know, dad. I'm at his place now and there's no sign of him. That's why I was hoping he was with you."

"He isn't, Steve. He hasn't been seen all morning." His dread was growing by the second. "Steve, I'd come over there, but we're completely snowed under." Mark let his frustration filter into his voice. He wanted to find Jesse; to help him, because now he knew without a doubt that he needed help, but there were so many others who needed him at the hospital and he couldn't simply walk away from his obligations – no matter how much he wanted to.

"It's okay, dad." Steve's assertive voice absolved him of the responsibility. "We'll find him."

* * *

Steve shoved his cellphone back into his pocket and looked slowly around the apartment. It looked the same as it always had – filled with Jesse's familiar clutter that almost bordered on untidiness. It certainly didn't look like the scene of a break-in.

There was nothing out of place in the lounge and, tellingly, Jesse's wallet, keys and cellphone all sat on the table next to the door. There were fifty-eight dollars in the wallet – not a great deal of cash, but certainly too tempting to be passed up by any casual thief.

In fact, there had been nothing out of place in the entire apartment and, if it weren't for the fact that the lock had been jimmied and the door left ajar, then there would have been no evidence whatsoever of the break-in.

Steve wandered into the bedroom and allowed his eyes to drift to the unmade bed and then to the clothes laid neatly over the back of a chair, as if they had been laid out ready for wearing the next day.

Idly he wondered why he'd even bothered phoning his father. It had been more than a long shot. It had been an impossible shot. Jesse wouldn't have left without getting dressed, without his keys or his wallet, not unless he had added sleepwalking to his repertoire.

_Sleepwalking…_ Steve shook his head, dismissing the idea as quickly as it had arisen. He knew the sort of trouble that somnambulists could get into – his own Uncle Stacy had been testament to that fact – but, although Jesse had been under a tremendous amount of stress, it wouldn't explain the broken lock.

"Let's get an APB out on him," he said to the uniformed cops who were awaiting his instructions. "And get onto dispatch. Tell whoever's chasing up that search on Bill Burton to put a shake on it. I've got a feeling that where we'll find one, we'll find the other."

* * *

Jesse lay on his side on the cellar floor and tried to curl into a ball, to protect himself from the blows that rained down on him. The movement hurt his stomach.

Burton had flown into a rage when his threats had not produced the results he desired and, unable to believe that the diminutive doctor could hold out against him, had laid into him with his fists. The questions continued, even though Burton never gave him time to answer.

He turned his face into the concrete floor – stained by his own blood – and tried to find the words that would make the beating stop.

"I'm sorry…" His voice was small and pitiful and Burton didn't even hear him.

The enraged man hauled Jesse up by the scruff of his neck and slammed him back against the wall.

"I know that you know," he snarled, breathless from the exertion he'd undergone. "And you are going to tell me, no matter how long it takes."

He flung Jesse away from him across the cellar, watching with sadistic delight as he stepped on a broken bottle on the floor. The bare foot split open and Jesse's legs gave way as agony raced through him. He fell heavily, landing awkwardly on one side and was unable to stifle his cry of pain. Then he could only lie trembling, his breath coming in harsh gasps.

Confusion clouded his mind as the same question was thrown at him for what seemed the thousandth time. There had never been questions before. There had been threats and profanities and dire warnings as to what else might be done to him. But there had never been these repetitive, never-ending demands.

As Burton strode towards him again, Jesse cowered away and a new instinct came to the fore – this one born of the need to survive.

"It was the men," he cried, without conscious thought. "The men, they killed him. It was the men…"

* * *

Having finally got things under control in the ER, Mark had headed to the doctors' lounge, needing a break and seeking solitude in order to think.

It was there that Amanda found him later that morning. The hospital grapevine had been working to full effect and the news of Jesse's disappearance had reached her, even in the pathology lab. As soon as she had heard, she'd gone in search of Mark. Then, seeing the worry deeply etched into the lines of his face, she knew that the gossip had been as accurate as ever.

"Mark, any news?" she asked, sliding into the seat next to him.

"Steve hasn't called back, he must still be investigating." Mark sighed and looked down at his hands. "Bill Burton's got him – I'm sure of it."

"Mark?" Amanda prompted, uneasily. There had been something in his voice that wasn't right, something more than simple worry. It had sounded like guilt.

"I think Steve guessed that something like this might happen." The older man looked at her with anguished eyes. "He got on to his colleagues to try and track Burton down, but then he got called away. I knew that he was expecting them to call back, but I kept the phone tied up all night. What if they had something and were trying to get through? We could have prevented this."

"You don't know that, Mark." Amanda covered one of his hands with her own. "You don't even know if they were trying to get through, if they even succeeded in tracking Burton down."

"They didn't." Steve strode into the lounge, just in time to hear Amanda's words. "There's no record of Burton on any scheduled flights and he hasn't hired a car. He hasn't even checked into a hotel – at least, not under his own name."

"Then how are we going to find him?"

"I don't know, Amanda." With a frustrated sigh, he ran one hand through his hair. "I've got an APB out on both him and Jesse but, other than that, I don't even know where to start looking."

"Perhaps I can help you with that, Lieutenant," a new voice said into the silence that had followed Steve's words.

"Dane!" Mark was on his feet in an instant as Jesse's father stepped through the door. "What are you doing here?"

The newcomer smiled humourlessly: "So far this morning, I have received fourteen messages that you were trying to contact me. I got the impression that it was urgent."

"It is." The doctor gestured for him to sit down, waiting for him to comply before continuing. "I'm afraid that Jesse's missing." When Dane merely raised an eyebrow in response to that statement, he pressed on: "There was a break-in at his apartment this morning and… well… he hasn't been seen since."

"Do you have any idea as to whom? Or why?" Dane was as composed as ever and he directed his questions towards Steve.

"We think it's a guy called Bill Burton. He's been hanging around…"

"Burton, you say?" The mention of that name at last provoked a reaction, a tightening of his jaw and a sudden hardness to his eyes.

"Yeah, do you know him?"

"I know of him," Dane answered, guardedly. "And, if he's been hanging around here, then I suppose you all know why."

"His brother," Mark put in, wanting to say so much more; wanting answers to the questions that had been nagging at him for days. But he knew that they didn't have the luxury of time for such things. "He wants to know the truth."

"And he thinks Jesse knows it." Dane paused thoughtfully for a long moment. "But you've no idea where he might be, or where he's taken my son?"

"We don't even know for sure that it was him," Steve retorted, feeling personally responsible for having failed his friend.

"I think you do – and I also think that you're right. But Jesse has suffered enough because of that family. You have to find him."

"That's what I've been trying to do!" the detective snapped, allowing his frustration to surface. Dane was making him feel even guiltier than he had before. "If you have any suggestions, then I'd be happy to hear them."

The CIA agent got to his feet and glanced at his watch.

"Where are you going?" Mark asked, unable to believe that he was simply going to walk out of there when Jesse was still in such danger.

"The Agency has access to all sorts of… information and technology. And we know how to track people down." Another brief smile touched his lips. "Keep your phone switched on, Lieutenant. I'll be in touch."

* * *

Burton had stopped in his tracks when he'd heard Jesse's feeble cry, but the strange choice of words didn't penetrate the overwhelming greed that was dictating his actions. He only saw it as progress. But it was minimal progress; the men that he'd so piteously referred to obviously meant the trespassers and he already knew that story to be a lie. However, he had finally received an answer. Now all he had to do was turn that answer into the truth.

"Oh no you don't," he murmured, taking another step forwards. The bound man whimpered softly and tried to curl into a foetal position, but pain flashed across his features and the movement quickly stopped. Burton glared down at him. "Your buddy's already tried to spin me that line."

He hooked his toes under Jesse's ribs and rolled him onto his back. Then he planted one foot squarely in the centre of his chest.

"The truth now, kid," he snarled, slowly applying more pressure. "You don't wanna see me really lose my temper."

Jesse tried to move, but his arms were trapped agonisingly beneath him and the increasing pain in his chest was making it difficult for him to breathe. Two tears trickled from the corners of his eyes, in spite his best efforts to stop them. Wayne had seen tears as a sign of weakness and they inevitably led to further punishment.

"I'm sorry…" he whimpered, squeezing his eyes shut to prevent further tears from escaping. "I didn't mean to… I'm sorry…"

"Godammit!" Burton lifted his foot from the prone man's chest and used it to kick him swiftly, brutally, in the side.

Jesse cried out again, his back arching at the sudden fire that raced through him. Then Burton kicked out again and he heard something crack.

As the booted foot connected for a third time, he gratefully gave in to the darkness that beckoned.

* * *

"Dane, wait!" Mark hurried into the corridor after the retreating form of Jesse's father. For one moment, he thought that he was going to be ignored, but then the other man halted and slowly turned.

"We don't have time to waste, Mark."

"This won't take long." When Dane merely nodded curtly, the doctor pressed on: "You said that Jesse had already suffered enough because of that family. That means you know what Wayne Burton did to him."

Regret flashed across Dane's features and he looked at Mark with unmistakable torment in his eyes.

"What is it you want me to say, Mark?" he asked. "Do you want me to say that if I hadn't walked out on Jesse all those years ago then none of this would have happened? Well, you're right. It wouldn't have happened." His eyes hardened and the remorseful father was gone, leaving the government agent in his place. "None of that would have happened, but I might have gone home one day to find my wife and son murdered in their beds."

"Dane…"

"The threat to my family was very real," the agent continued, ignoring the other man's attempt to interrupt. "A colleague of mine ignored the warnings and he paid the ultimate price." He didn't need to elaborate on that statement, the implications were obvious. "So I was left with a choice to make. I made what I thought was the right one. I know that Jesse suffered after my departure and I know that he's suffering now because of it, but he's alive and, for that reason only, I cannot have any regrets for what I did."

"I do understand," Mark replied with absolute honesty. He didn't even have to ask himself what he would have done in such circumstances. The answer was etched into his heart. "And it wasn't my intention to accuse you of anything. I just wanted to know…" He paused, wondering how to phrase his question. "Did you know that Wayne Burton was murdered?"

Dane snorted bitter laughter: "And you think that I killed him." It wasn't a question. "I love Jesse and I would do anything for him. And you know that I've killed before." He smiled humourlessly. "You can draw your own conclusions from that – perhaps you already have – but I'm sure that you must have read the police reports by now. Didn't they tell you that I wasn't even in Elgin that day?"

"Dane…"

"And now, if you'll excuse me, I need to start tracking down my son."

Before Mark could utter another word, the agent had resumed his progress down the corridor. He didn't look back when Mark called after him again.

TBC


	8. Chapter 8

Rating: T for violence/language.

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters of DM. I do own the ones I created.

**Thanks, as ever, for the reviews. You people really know how to make my day!**

Skeletons

Chapter Eight

"Come on, kid, wake up." Burton had dragged Jesse across the cellar and sat him propped up against a wall. "You don't get away from me that easily." He punctuated his words with none too gentle slaps to his captive's face and was rewarded by a grimace and then a fluttering of eyelashes. "Wake up, dammit."

Jesse's eyes flickered open, but his brief spell of unconsciousness had done little to clear the clouds in his mind. Pain and fear dominated his every sense and he couldn't prevent himself from cowering away as a man's face filled his field of vision.

"The truth." Burton spat, still paying no heed to the unnatural distance in the other man's eyes. "Now!" He jerked him forwards by the collar. "Who are you protecting?"

Jesse's mouth moved, but no sound emerged. He couldn't understand what was being demanded of him, didn't know what he had done wrong. But he did know better than to try and lie to his tormentor. Wayne always knew when he was lying.

Burton abruptly released him, shoving him back against the wall. He got to his feet and began to pace, running one hand through his thinning hair. It was all going wrong. He had the doctor cowering and terrified, he should have given him the answers on which so much rode by now. The money that he craved was slipping through his fingers and he didn't know what else he could do about it. He paused long enough to glare at the bound man.

The kid was protecting someone, he had to be. And it was a loyalty that was frightening in its ferocity that he would endure such punishment to maintain it. A slow smile spread over Burton's face. There weren't many people in a person's life that could inspire such feelings.

Crossing swiftly back to where Jesse was hunched against the wall, he grabbed him by the shoulder, bunching the material of the tee shirt in his fist and hauling him to his feet.

"It's your mom, isn't it?" he hissed, his face very close to the other man's. "That's who you're trying to protect. What? Did she do it herself? Or did the slut have some other boyfriend who she got to do it for her?"

"M… mom..?" Jesse murmured, that one word having registered in his regressed mind.

"Tell me why she did it!" He used his free hand to grasp his captive's chin, forcing him to look at him. "Why?"

Jesse's breath was coming in harsh gasps, his terror and the injuries he had sustained to his ribs making each inhalation more and more difficult. He couldn't have spoken even if he'd had any words to say.

He didn't know what was happening; didn't know where he was or who was holding him – and hurting him.

Burton looked into the eyes that stared blankly at him and, releasing Jesse's chin, drew back his hand to administer another slap. He stopped himself at the last moment and a cold, calculating look entered his eyes. Using more force than was necessary, given that Jesse would have collapsed the moment that he was released, he flung his captive to the ground.

"Alright," he said, his voice deceptively calm, but with a cold rage glittering in his eyes. "Maybe I should just ask her instead."

* * *

Mark sighed heavily as he re-entered the doctors' lounge, causing both Steve and Amanda to look up in concern.

"Mark?" It was Amanda who voiced the question, seeing how haggard the older man looked.

"It's not easy being a parent," Mark muttered, almost to himself.

He was remembering the one time that he and Jesse had spoken at length about his relationship with his father. The young man had been fighting for his life, infected by a mutated smallpox virus and had probably said more than he ever would have in normal circumstances.

It had saddened Mark when Jesse had tried to casually brush off that relationship as not being bad, but just not being anything. His closeness to Steve had prompted him to probe ever more deeply and had resulted in Jesse admitting that he thought his dad just didn't care; that the last time he had seen him, they had had nothing to say to each other. He remembered the exact words that he'd used at the time: _sometimes it's like that when there's really too much to say._

The conversation had moved on then, but Mark knew that he had spoken the absolute truth. Dane did what he did because he loved his family too much to put them in danger. The fact that danger had visited his son regardless was not his fault, but how could he ever have explained that to his only child who was being so dreadfully abused. Jesse had thought him to be an accountant and had no clue as to the real reason for him leaving the family home – but all of the reasons in the world would not have justified what had then transpired. And, if Jesse could still lie some of the blame with his father, didn't it only follow that the man would feel some of the guilt?

"Dad?" Steve prompted, when nothing more was forthcoming. "What happened? Where did you go rushing off to like that?"

"There was something I needed to ask Dane." Mark shook himself out of his musing. "And he said the strangest thing. He said 'you saw the police reports, I wasn't in Elgin that day'."

"That's right," Steve frowned, wondering where his father saw strangeness in that statement. "Dane's name wasn't even mentioned in those reports."

"No, it was the way he said that it was in the police reports." Mark explained. "He didn't just say himself that he wasn't there."

"Implying that he was?" Amanda put in, struggling to follow the older man's train of thought.

"Maybe I'm reading between the lines, but that was the impression that I got. Dane wasn't lying to me; he was making sure that he didn't have to." Mark looked at the two of them seriously. "He was in Elgin that day and he killed Wayne Burton. I'm certain of it."

* * *

Burton stalked over to where Jesse lay, confident that this new tactic would work. If he was so desperate to protect his mother, then he would do anything to prevent her from being hurt.

Jesse's eyes were open, but he was staring blankly at the wall. Burton nudged him with his foot and then crouched next to him.

"Did you hear what I said, boy?" There was no indication that he had, but Burton was undaunted. "I'm gonna find out the truth and if I have to drag your mom down here then that's what I'll do."

The words were meaningless to Jesse. His entire world consisted only of his pain and his fear – and the utter certainty that he was going to die. And his mind dragged him back in time to the one occasion that he had genuinely believed that Wayne was going to kill him.

"_What the __**hell**__ did you think you were doing?" Wayne snarled as he advanced across the lounge._

_Jesse backed up until he felt the wall against his back. He knew that he'd made a mistake and he also knew that he was going to pay for it. It was three days after Christmas and Wayne had confiscated every single present that he'd received. He said it was because Jesse was ungrateful, but nothing could have been further from the truth. It was just another excuse to torment the child._

_But Jesse had been so subdued the next day that even his mom had picked up on it. When she had gently asked what was wrong, he had seen his opportunity._

_Unfortunately, Wayne had walked in on them before he had barely even begun. Jesse couldn't lie and nor could he hide what he was feeling. The terror on his face gave Wayne an unmistakable message – telling him loud and clear exactly what he had interrupted._

_When Jesse's mom had gone to work, he pinned the petrified child to the wall by his throat._

"_I should kill you for that," he hissed, slowly tightening his grip. "You're not gonna ruin what I've got here. You understand that? You breathe so much as one word to anyone, ever again and I will kill you. And then I'll kill your mom. Is that what you want? Is it?"_

_Jesse couldn't answer – couldn't breathe. Darkness clawed at the edge of his vision, but still Wayne didn't relent._

_The darkness encroached even further and his tortured lungs screamed for air. As unconsciousness claimed him, he had time for one last fleeting thought:_

"_Please, God, don't let him hurt my mom."_

"Mom…"

Burton heard the whispered word and smirked triumphantly. His plan had worked. The threat to Jesse's mother had proved the key.

"That's more like it," he muttered, forcing Jesse to look at him and ignoring the disconcertingly vague gaze that didn't quite meet his. "Now, start talking."

Jesse wasn't seeing him. He was staring into the past, looking at the familiar pattern of his mom's carpet, marred by a scattering of pine needles that had fallen from the Christmas tree. The only constant between the past and present was the difficulty he had in breathing – the child because of his bruised throat and the adult because of the fire in his ribs.

"You don't wanna test me, kid," Burton was quickly running out of his limited patience. "Your mom's not gonna be in Europe forever. You really want to do this to her? You really want to stay down here, locked away, until she gets back – and then I go drag her down here? You really want that? Huh?"

_It took him a moment to process the fact that he wasn't dead. He was lying in the lounge where Wayne had dropped him. He tried to swallow past the agony in his throat; tried to quell the sobs that rose up in him. He was alone and he wanted things to stay that way. More than anything, he didn't want to attract Wayne's attention, or else he might come back and finish the job._

_But suddenly he wasn't alone. A threatening shape loomed over him and rough hands grabbed at him, while a harsh voice said words that he couldn't understand. And he couldn't understand because the memory was wrong._

"You think I won't do it," Burton growled, grabbing the front of Jesse's tee shirt and dragging him upright. "You think I wouldn't hit a woman? Guess again. I'll do whatever it takes. I want my money." He shook his captive as he spoke, his desperation growing. The threats against Jesse's mom were a bluff. He couldn't afford to wait for her vacation to end; couldn't take the risk of another kidnapping. But it was his final throw of the dice.

And the elation that he'd felt when he thought his ploy was working was quickly replaced by dark fury. He flung Jesse away from him and got to his feet.

"I was hoping it wasn't going to come to this," he murmured, his hands moving to his belt buckle. "But you're leaving me with no choice."

* * *

"Bill Burton has rented a house, privately, in West Hollywood," Dane's voice on Steve's cellphone calmly informed him. "That's why you couldn't find him."

"Dane…" There were so many questions that Steve wanted to ask, following his father's theory about what had really happened in Elgin. And it was only a theory – a gut instinct that he knew was right, but didn't know how he knew. The more he'd thought about it, the more the detective had been forced to agree. Dane certainly had the motive and the means and, recalling what he'd read in the police reports, Jesse's father had never been questioned – had never had to provide an alibi. But knowing it was the truth was one thing, knowing what to do with that truth was a different matter entirely.

"Just meet me there." The agent interrupted him sharply before reeling off the address. He hung up without saying another word.

Steve scowled at his now dead phone and then turned to Mark and Amanda, who were looking at him expectantly.

"We've got an address on Burton," he told them, pocketing his phone and heading towards the door.

"I'm coming with you," his father predictably said.

"Mark…" Amanda looked distraught and Mark fully understood why. Two major emergencies in as many days had left her with a backlog of work to catch up on. There was no way that she could leave the hospital for any length of time.

"We'll call you the moment that we know anything," he promised, giving her shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

"Just find him, Mark," she whispered, even as they exited the lounge. "And please let him be alright."

* * *

It was the one thing that he couldn't ignore. As Bill pulled the belt free from its loops, Jesse's eyes were immediately drawn to it and his breath caught in his throat.

"No…" His voice was barely audible, but filled with horror. He tried to find some purchase on the floor with his blood slicked feet; tried to back away, but there was nowhere for him to go.

It was a nightmare – a nightmare in which Wayne had risen from the dead and come back to torture him further. Nausea churned in his stomach as the man relentlessly approached him.

"Please, no…" he whimpered, unable to tear his eyes away from the soft leather as it sailed through the air.

He couldn't survive this, he knew that he couldn't – not again. The agony of such a beating was forever etched into his memory, no matter how hard he tried to repress it. And he couldn't endure it again.

Jesse wanted to throw his arms up to protect his face, but his bonds held him immobile, adding to his helpless terror. Then the belt smacked against his chest and he tried to scream, tried to beg some more – even though he knew it was futile.

He managed to roll partly onto his side and the belt struck his shoulder. The next blow struck his bare arm. Desperate prayers – that had so often gone unanswered – raced through his mind. But there was no respite, no escape and nothing he could do to end his torment. Even unconsciousness eluded him.

Burton lost control completely. He heard the pitiful pleas that escaped his captive, but they only served to enrage him further. The man lay broken and bleeding on the floor; was a cowering, crying wreck – and yet he still held out against him. He was still keeping him from his money.

"You piece of shit!" he ranted, continuing to rain blows on the helpless form at his feet. "You little bastard! Is this what you want me to do to your mom? Huh? You want to sit there and watch while I beat the crap out of her?" Spittle flew from his lips as he continued to rant. "I want my money and dammit, I'm gonna get it. I'll kill you if I have to. I'll kill both of you!"

He put his full strength behind each and every blow. He had suffered the same many years ago and knew the agony he was inflicting. Nobody could hold out for long under such torture – he was certain of it.

"I'll take every inch of skin off your body, damn you!" He targeted the same spot on his captive's right shoulder, whipping it repeatedly until the skin broke and blood stained the leather belt. "Tell me! Tell me, dammit!"

His rage was all encompassing and he took a perverse pleasure – that bound him to both his father and his brother – in the power that it gave him.

He didn't hear the cellar door slam open, was barely aware of the footsteps on the stairs – nor the voice that cried out in anger.

The first he realised that they were not alone was when an arm snaked around his neck and then tightened, brutally cutting off his airway. The belt fell from his nerveless fingers and darkness rushed up to assail him.

As consciousness was torn from him, he heard a voice: "Dane, don't."

TBC


	9. Chapter 9

Rating: T for violence/language.

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters of DM. I do own the ones I created.

**Thanks, as ever, for the reviews. **

Skeletons

Chapter Nine

"Don't kill him, Dane." Steve locked his eyes with those of Jesse's dad and put the full force of his will behind that command.

"Give me one good reason." The agent held Burton in a potentially deadly headlock; one that had already robbed him of consciousness and that, with a little more pressure, would rob him of life.

"It's not the right thing to do," Steve responded. His eyes flickered towards where Jesse lay, but his view was obscured by Mark, who had rushed to the young doctor's side.

"He's not getting away with what he did to my son," Dane snapped. He tightened his arm fractionally. Another ounce of pressure would finish the job.

"He won't," Steve told him, implacably. He saw the tightening of the grip and took a half step forwards. "He'll pay for what he's done. Through the courts, through jail." He took another small step. "I can't let you do this."

"You can't stop me."

"I can arrest you – and I will if you kill that man." His eyes were again drawn towards his stricken friend. "And I think Jesse will need you at his side and not rotting away in jail."

"Jesse…" 

Abruptly, Burton was released to collapse in an inelegant heap on the floor. Dane went to approach his son, but then suddenly found that he couldn't. He could hear Mark's soothing tones, could see the doctor fumbling at the ropes that bound his wrists – but Jesse himself seemed completely unresponsive. Dane stood where he was, wondering what it was that held him paralysed – and then instantly recognising it as fear.

* * *

"Jesse, can you hear me?" Mark kept his voice deliberately calm, appalled by what they had walked in on and understanding that the young man must have been utterly terrified. 

The ropes around his wrists were slick with blood where he had struggled and the knots were too tight for him to gain any purchase. The weight of a penknife in his pocket solved that particular problem and he made short work of the bonds – aware of the voices behind him, but paying them no heed.

His focus was solely on Jesse. His colleague was bloodied and bruised, but his eyes were open and he appeared to be conscious.

"Jesse?" He reached down, intended to cup his friend's cheek, to gently turn him to face him. But he withdrew his hand as though it had been burnt when Jesse cried out weakly and flinched away.

_Oh dear God._ Mark suddenly remembered the way that Jesse had regressed back to his childhood when he had gently tired to question him about it. His treatment at the hands of Bill Burton had been anything but gentle.

"Jesse," he tried again, keeping his voice calm and soothing. Even as he spoke, his hands were busy, quietly preparing an injection of painkillers. Unable to touch Jesse, he couldn't even begin to guess as to the full extent of his injuries, but he was obviously in agony. "It's Mark. Mark Sloan. You're safe now, Jess. Can you understand that? You're safe."

The only response he got was a barely audible moan and a feeble moving of Jesse's legs as he tried to crawl further away from this latest intrusion.

"Jesse, I want you to focus on my voice. Can you do that, son?" He never considered the fact that Jesse's true father was standing behind him. He just wanted to find some way to reach his stricken friend. "It's Mark Sloan. You know me, I'm your friend. You're safe now. It's over, Jesse. I promise you, it's over."

But Jesse merely whimpered softly and, now that his hands were free, he wrapped them around his midriff and inched his knees slightly upwards towards his chest.

"Jesse, please…" Mark trailed off, realising that he was only serving to further traumatise his friend. He was too far gone, too lost in his memories, to recognise even his voice. He needed to get him to the hospital where they could look after him properly. "Steve," he murmured. "I'm going to need an ambulance."

Those words spurred Dane out of his paralysis. Mark had sounded so grave, so fearful that he could no longer simply stand by and do nothing. He dropped to his knees at his son's side.

"Jesse?" He reached out to tenderly stroke the back of his head, his stomach tightening in horror as Jesse pulled away. "Jesse, it's dad."

"Dane…" Mark felt that he had to intervene – to explain to the other man about how Jesse had reverted back to his childhood and that it was unlikely he was even aware of any of them, but a soft, anguished voice silenced anything that he might have said.

"It's a bad dream…" Jesse's voice was cracked and broken. "I prayed and prayed that you'd come, but you never did… I prayed so hard… You never came… It's just a bad dream and I'll wake up and you'll be gone…"

Tears welled in Mark's throat at the pitiful words. Jesse was still lost in his past, but he had heard his father's voice. That was something, at least. He looked at Dane, but the agent – trained to deal with almost any situation – had found the one thing that he couldn't handle: his son's twelve-year-old voice accusing him of not being there when he needed him. He could only stare down helplessly at the broken body on the floor.

"Try again," Mark whispered, giving the other man a gentle nudge. Dane looked up sharply, confusion in his eyes. "He heard your voice," Mark explained. "You belong in that time where he is – I don't. Talk to him, Dane. Get through to him."

"Jesse? Son?" Dane's voice was hesitant, uncertain. "I'm really here, Jesse. It's not a dream."

"You never came… I prayed and prayed…"

"Yes I did, Jesse. I came the moment that I knew you needed me." He reached out again and this time there was no flinch in response to his touch. "I promise you Jesse, when you prayed, when you needed me, I came to you son."

"D… dad?" The bloodied face turned upwards, the blue eyes still not completely focussed. But it was a start.

* * *

Mark watched the scene unfold before him and wished that he could give the father and son the privacy that they so desperately needed. But he had continued to examine Jesse with his eyes and he didn't like what he was seeing. The young man was covered with contusions and bruises and had obviously been beaten even before the brutal assault that they had walked in on. More worrying were the lacerations to his shoulder, which bled freely. More blood on the floor drew Mark's eyes down to Jesse's bare feet and he winced at the sight of the grime encrusted cuts that marred the soles. Then there was the bruised lump on his temple, indicative of a hefty blow and warning of possible concussion.

"We need to get him warm," he said, gently touching Dane's arm to get his attention. "He's in shock and..." He paused, listening and then shook his head. "I don't like the sound of his breathing.

Dane looked at him with barely suppressed panic in his eyes. Then he nodded and stripped off his overcoat, wrapping it around Jesse's trembling form.

"Keep talking to him," Mark instructed him. "He seems to respond to you and I need you to try and keep him calm."

The agent nodded again and Mark reached for his stethoscope. Relief flooded through him when Jesse didn't flinch away from its touch.

"Jesse, there's something that I need to tell you," Dane said, as he carefully manoeuvred his son into his arms.

Something in Dane's voice stilled Mark's hands and he looked up at him, sharply. Guilt was written all over his features and the forthcoming confession was evident in his eyes. 

"Don't, Dane. Not now." Mark shook his head to emphasise his words. "It's not the right time. You need to keep Jesse calm."

He silently willed the other man to comply. He didn't want Jesse to be agitated any more than he already was. And a confession as to what had really befallen Wayne Burton would surely do just that. The young man's breathing was ragged and his gentle examination had confirmed Mark's fears that he had suffered broken ribs. He didn't want those injuries compromised.

"Then what should I say?" Dane asked.

"Anything." Mark offered him an encouraging smile. "Just let him keep hearing your voice. That's all that he needs right now."

* * *

Steve watched silently as the two older men ministered to his friend and silently wished that there was something he could do to help. His view of Jesse was completely obscured and, aside from his one brief glimpse of him as they'd entered the cellar, he had no idea as to how badly he had been hurt. Steve shuddered as he remembered that moment; the sound of leather impacting against flesh; the ranting of Burton as he'd whipped his victim and the minute sounds that were all Jesse had been able to voice in protest.

His restless gaze shifted back to where Bill Burton lay. After making sure that Dane had only incapacitated the man and not killed him, Steve had cuffed his hands behind his back, mostly as a precaution. He didn't know how long the agent's technique would keep him out for and he wasn't about to take any chances.

Remembering what they had walked in on made Steve wonder exactly what it was that had caused him to stop Dane from killing the man. He himself had been furious enough to do exactly that, but the burning rage had been quelled by the instinct that made him who he was: his cop's instinct that simply knew that one more death would not make things right.

But that didn't quell his burning desire to see Burton get exactly what he deserved, to ensure that he never hurt Jesse again. And nor did it negate his need to do something – anything to help.

Then he heard Mark mutter something about Jesse needing to be kept calm and, at last, Steve saw a way to make a contribution towards the young man's wellbeing. Jesse most certainly wouldn't keep calm if Burton were to wake up in his vicinity. Grabbing the still unconscious man by the scruff of the neck, he hauled him semi-upright. The sudden movement caused his father to glance in his direction.

"I need to keep an eye out for that ambulance," Steve said, by way of explanation. "And I've got a patrol unit on the way to take this scum downtown."

"Steve." There was a flash of guilt in the older man's eyes as he remembered the one remaining member of his extended family – and the promise that he'd made to her. "Please, will you call Amanda?"

* * *

"Amanda, it's okay. We've found him."

Steve heard Amanda sigh in sheer and utter relief as he said those words. Stuck back at the hospital, alone in her pathology lab and surrounded by the dead, her worry must have been all consuming.

"Is he..?" Amanda's voice was dry and hesitant. Some of the fear obviously still remained. "How is he?"

Steve paused, wondering how he could possibly answer that question. He didn't know how Jesse was; he hadn't asked. But he did know that it wasn't just his physical wellbeing that had his father concerned – and he had heard Jesse's small voice for himself.

"Steve?" The hint of panic in Amanda's voice told him that he had allowed the silence to drag on for too long. 

"I'm sorry." He gave himself a mental shake. "He's… he's hurt, Amanda. Burton…" He paused again, unable to put into words exactly what he had witnessed. "He was determined to get his answers," he concluded, lamely. "And Jesse… I don't know, Amanda…" 

"Oh God…" Her response was spoken on a sigh.

"He'll be alright," Steve said, with as much reassurance as he could muster. "Dane and my dad are with him. He'll be just fine."

The wailing of sirens in the distance, growing ever louder, forced Steve to conclude his call. Help was on the way and he could finally start to allow himself to believe that he had told Amanda the truth.

* * *

Mark eased the overcoat back from Jesse's shoulder and gently dabbed at the raw flesh with a sterile gauze. The young man moaned softly and tried to pull away, but Dane tightened his embrace, allowing Mark to continue his treatment.

"It's alright, Jesse." The agent's voice was calm and soothing, as he tried to heed Mark's instructions. "This is no worse than that time you fell down the stairs. Do you remember that, Jesse? To this day, I'll never know what you were thinking. How many times had I told you only to use your skateboard outside?"

Mark allowed himself a sad smile at the fond indulgence that had been so evident in Dane's voice. It must have been nigh on impossible for him to leave the boy, whom he obviously loved very much.

"'m sorry…" Jesse's response was filled with contrition. Then he shifted slightly again. "Dad?"

"Yes, Jesse?"

"'m hot…" he murmured, closing his eyes. "Please may I have a soda?"

Dane looked worriedly up at Mark, who placed his hand against Jesse's forehead. He was disappointed but not surprised to feel the heat that radiated from it. The conditions he had been kept in had made infection almost inevitable. 

"He'll be alright just as soon as we get him to the hospital," Mark murmured, though he couldn't keep the concern out of his voice. Any hope he'd dared nurture that Dane was getting through to his son had been killed by those soft words. Jesse was as lost to them as ever.

"Dad!" Steve's voice from the top of the stairs came right on cue. "The ambulance is here."

Exchanging a glance with Mark and seeing his own profound relief mirrored in his eyes, Dane gathered his precious bundle even closer still and carefully climbed to his feet.

* * *

Steve glanced up from his morbid contemplation of nothing as his father emerged from the open cellar door. Dane was right behind him, carrying Jesse cradled in his arms. He saw the way that his best friend flinched as they entered the brightly lit kitchen, turning his face into Dane's chest and closing his eyes. Then Jesse's broken voice reached the detective's ears.

"I… I'm sorry… I won't do it again… Please don't send me back down there…"

Sudden fury raced through Steve as he recalled the one time that he'd spoken to Jesse about Burton; his friend's anguish as he'd raged: _"How about the time he locked me in the cellar and left me there all night?"_

Steve turned his murderous glare towards Bill Burton. The man was slumped on the floor, his hands still cuffed and he was still unconscious. But Steve had to physically resist the urge to get to his feet and kick the hell out of the man – no matter how helpless he was.

In fact, if the sudden screeching of car tyres outside hadn't told him that the patrol unit he'd requested had arrived, then he might have done exactly that.

As Mark directed Dane out to the waiting ambulance, they passed close by Steve and he could see the unhealthy flush on Jesse's cheeks, hear his continued cries – apologising to a man who was long dead but still causing him immeasurable suffering. And he was immensely glad of the cops' arrival. Not only was he at risk of landing himself police brutality charges but – the way he was feeling – his actions could sorely compromise the case against Bill Burton, for making his dear friend relive that nightmare.

Biting down on his temper, he waited until the other three men had exited the room and then crossed back to where Burton lay. He had been none to gentle with the man as he'd hauled him up the cellar steps – not caring if he was bruising him and a part of him hoping that he was. He exhibited the same lack of gentleness as he dragged him upright and handed him over to the waiting cops.

TBC


	10. Chapter 10

Rating: T for violence/language

Rating: T for violence/language.

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters of DM. I do own the ones I created.

**Thanks, as ever, for the reviews. **

Skeletons

Chapter Ten

"So it was all about money?" The quiet anger in Dane's voice made Amanda wonder if she'd maybe said too much.

Steve hadn't accompanied the ambulance back to Community General. Instead, he'd gone back to the precinct bound and determined that everything about Bill Burton's formal arrest would be done by the book. He knew that the man came from a wealthy family and would probably be able to afford the best of lawyers – and he wasn't about to risk him walking free on a technicality.

Then when they had finally arrived at the hospital, Mark had immediately whisked Jesse into an examination room. Amanda had been waiting and, seeing her worry, Mark had offered her brief words of encouragement before disappearing through the doors to tend to his protégé.

That left her alone with Dane and she had guided him to the doctors' lounge. He didn't belong in there but she knew that nobody would object to his presence.

With nothing left to do but wait, she had filled Jesse's father in on everything she knew about Bill Burton and his motives for digging up the long-dead crime. It was her recounting of Steve's theory that there was a several million dollar inheritance at stake that had provoked the reaction.

"Steve thought that with the mother's death and Bill's totally irrational, obsessive behaviour…" she tried to explain.

"It was all about money." Dane's lips were pressed into a thin line. "I should have killed him."

Amanda sucked in a shocked breath when she heard those words. Though she knew full well what Dane did for a living – and had seen his handiwork in her lab on occasion – she had had no idea as to what had happened during Jesse's rescue. Alone in her lab, she'd had plenty of time to speculate and now it seemed that some of her scenarios maybe weren't so far fetched.

"You're a parent, Doctor Bentley." Dane continued, his eyes boring into hers. "You know that you would do anything to protect your children. If you'd have walked in on… If you'd have seen someone hurting your kid… beating him…" His voice broke and his gaze faltered at the sudden memory.

"Dane…" Amanda's compassion rose swiftly to the fore and she sat down next to the agent, covering one of his hands with her own. She'd felt a fierce surge of protectiveness at the very mention of her boys and knew that Dane had spoken the truth. She would, indeed, do anything – go to any lengths to keep them from harm. And she knew, without a doubt, that what Mark had suspected was true. "You've already killed for him, haven't you?" she asked, without a trace of judgement in her voice.

Dane's reaction took her totally by surprise. He got swiftly to his feet and headed towards the door, pausing only long enough to glance in her direction: "There's something I need to do," was all he said by way of explanation.

Amanda was saved the need of having to try and stop him – or, worse still, to explain why Jesse's father had apparently deserted him – by the sudden arrival of Mark. The door opened so abruptly that the two men only narrowly avoided a collision.

"Mark!" There was undisguised relief in her voice and that relief only increased when he offered her a gentle smile.

"How's Jesse?" All thought of leaving forgotten, Dane turned his full attention to the man who had just arrived. He had, he realised, faced death with less fear than he was feeling at that precise moment in time.

"I've had him admitted." Mark directed his reply to both of them. "He has three broken ribs and they were affecting his breathing but, thankfully, the lungs were intact. There was some minor internal bleeding, but we soon got that under control. He's still running a fever and I've got him on antibiotics to combat the infection in his feet." Mark continued with a soft shake of his head. "As for the rest… Well, the cuts and abrasions are mostly superficial and shouldn't cause any problems – even the wound on his shoulder. It looked nasty, but it shouldn't leave a scar."

"Oh God," Amanda breathed, closing her eyes as the catalogue of abuse finally came to a halt.

"Mark?" Dane's response was guarded. He had been in the cellar, had seen first hand the extent of Jesse's suffering and he'd heard the effect that it had had on him. "What about..? Will he be..? I mean, will he still think that he's back there – that he's twelve years old again?""

"We won't know the answer to that until he wakes up." Mark's tone grew grim. "It might just have been the fever making him delirious. It might have been the surroundings and the fact that Burton was abusing him in the same way that his brother did all those years ago. I don't know." He attempted a smile. "Now that he's back in a safe, familiar environment, he might wake up back to his old self."

"But he might not," Dane retorted, horror and fear making his tone unintentionally sharp.

"Dane…" Mark rubbed a weary hand across his brow. "Jesse underwent severe emotional trauma – as well as being hurt physically. It's impossible to anticipate how he's going to react now that he's safe."

"I know and I'm sorry." The agent was instantly contrite. "It's just that…" He pinched the bridge of his nose, striving to find some way to put into words what he was feeling. "My son…"

"It's alright." Mark's gentle voice saved him the need. Both he and Amanda, as parents themselves, understood completely. "He's sleeping right now, but you can go up and see him. Just don't wake him."

Dane's responding smile was filled with gratitude and he barely retained the presence of mind to ask for the room number before he was gone.

"Mark?" Amanda's voice was hesitant and her eyes were wide with trepidation as she sought to understand what she had just heard. "What did you mean 'emotional trauma'? And what did Dane mean about Jesse being twelve years old again?"

"Let's sit down, honey." Mark led her to the table and got them both a coffee before beginning to tell her exactly what they had rescued Jesse from.

He was almost done by the time the door opened again and Steve entered the lounge. The detective was obviously not happy and the way he flung himself into the nearest available chair eloquently bespoke his feelings.

"Burton's citing diminished responsibility – or at least his attorney is," he growled, helping himself to his father's coffee and then grimacing at the sweetness. "He's claiming that the trauma of finding out that his brother was murdered made him act irrationally and totally out of character."

"Surely he's not going to get away with that," Mark frowned. "The kidnapping had to have been premeditated. It's not the sort of thing you just do on the spur of the moment, no matter how traumatised you are."

"Unfortunately, that's not for us to decide," Steve groused. "He's having a psych evaluation tomorrow. We'll know more then."

"I'd keep that from Dane until you know for sure, if I were you," Amanda put in, quietly. "He's already wishing that he'd killed Burton. There's no telling what he'll do if he thinks there's a chance he might get away with it."

"Where is Dane?"

"With Jesse." It was his father who answered him and seeing the sudden panic flash across his son's face quickly sought to reassure him. "And Jesse's sleeping at the moment. It's the best thing for him."

"How's he doing?" Steve felt guilty at not having asked after his best friend sooner, but Burton – and his attorney – had infuriated him.

"He'll get there, given time."

"Dad?" Steve's tone grew pensive. "When do you think he'll wake up? I really need to talk to him. I need to know what Burton said to him – whether he was at all irrational or…"

"Steve," Mark interrupted, shaking his head. "You were there. You saw how Jesse was when we finally got him out of that place. Do you really think he's going to be able to tell you anything?"

"But that was just because he was scared, wasn't it?" Steve's eyes widened with horror when his father didn't immediately answer. "I mean, he's not still gonna be like that when he wakes up… Is he?"

"I don't know, Steve." Mark had no choice but to be totally honest, even if he didn't like the way his son's face paled at his words. "But you might have to accept the fact that you're going to have to make a case against Burton without Jesse's help."

* * *

It was too warm. As Jesse gradually returned to consciousness later that night, the first thing that he became aware of was the fact that he was uncomfortably hot. He shifted slightly, wanting to kick the bedclothes away, but sudden pain flared through his side, forcing a low moan from him.

"It's alright, Jesse." A familiar voice filtered into his brain and he felt the warmth of a touch on his arm. "Just take your time. You're going to be okay."

Though his pain and discomfort tried to convince him that waking up would not be such a good idea, he could not ignore that voice. As it continued to speak to him in soothing tones, he fought past the last residues of slumber and cracked his eyes open.

Kindly blue eyes stared down at him and he tried a smile, wanting to dispel some of the concern that lurked in the gentle gaze.

"Hey, Mark…" He had to force the words past the dryness in his throat, but it was worth the effort as the other man's smile widened.

Mark almost sagged in relief when he heard those simple words. Even more encouraging was that the gaze that met his – though hazy with pain – held none of the terrifying blankness that had confronted him in the cellar.

"Hi there, Jesse." He perched on the edge of the bed and smiled again at his patient. "How are you feeling?"

"'m hot…"

Mark's smile froze on his face and he felt his heart lurch. The words were a direct echo of those he'd said in the cellar and had been spoken in such a similar voice that he fully expected the next line to be: _'please may I have a soda?'_ But those words weren't forthcoming. Jesse merely shifted again in a futile attempt to get more comfortable.

"Mark?" he gasped as fresh pain assailed him. "Hurts…"

"God, I'm sorry Jesse." Mark snapped himself out of his fear induced reverie and placed one hand to Jesse's forehead. "I'll get you something for the pain."

"'m thirsty too…" That the words were spoken on the merest whisper attested to that fact.

Mark administered a fresh dose of painkiller and then reached for the cup of ice chips that had been left on the nightstand. As he eased one into Jesse's mouth, the young man sighed and relaxed back onto the bed. His eyes closed and, for a moment, Mark thought that he'd drifted back off to sleep. Then one eye cracked open.

"Mark, what happened?" His voice was small and plaintive. "How did I get here?"

Mark paused for a long moment before answering. This was a crunch moment and he had to be careful how he handled it. Jesse might have seemed to be back to his old self but he knew that the slightest thing might trigger a relapse.

"Do you remember anything, Jesse?" he asked, carefully. "Anything at all?"

"Um… I…" A frown furrowed his features as he sought the memory. "Um… there was a car?" He looked up at Mark hopefully, as though seeking confirmation that there had indeed been a car.

"Anything else?" Mark responded with another question, gently encouraging Jesse to do this by himself.

"I think… I remember a garage… And then…" _An open cellar door, beckoning darkness, Wayne dragging him towards that terrifying place._ "No…" He screwed his eyes shut against a memory that couldn't be real – at least not in this time. "No, I… It was a nightmare… He was… He…" Jesse began to fight for breath as his panic threatened to overwhelm him.

"Easy, Jess." Mark placed a calming hand on his forearm. "Take slow, even breaths. It's alright." He continued to talk soothingly as Jesse gradually began to calm down. It was as he'd feared: Jesse was going to be of no help to Steve. He could remember nothing of his captivity.

"Mark?" Jesse breathing had evened out, but Mark was disconcerted to see tears shining in his eyes. "Why can't I remember?"

Mark sighed, wondering how he could possibly answer that question. How could he tell Jesse that he had reverted back to his childhood? How could he describe the abuse that he'd endured? And how could he tell him that Bill Burton might yet walk away with little more than a slap on the wrist?

"Jesse…" He had to say something – and Jesse would learn of his ordeal eventually. "It was Bill Burton."

"Bill..?" Confusion filled his blue eyes. "I don't understand. Why Mark?"

"He wanted to know what happened to his brother." The older doctor held his breath as he said those words, wondering if the mention of Wayne might be the trigger to send Jesse spiralling back into the past. But Jesse just closed his eyes and turned his face away from his friend.

"He was in my nightmares," he whispered.

"I know, Jesse." Mark's eyes softened in sympathy. "Try to get some rest now. You've been through a lot."

"Mark?" Jesse spoke still without looking at his mentor. "Could you..? I mean, um… Will you please leave the light on?"

"Of course I will." Somehow Mark managed to keep his tone calm as sudden fury flared through him. He knew just what it had cost Jesse to make that quiet request. His young friend didn't like to show any sign of weakness; didn't even like to ask for help. But Bill Burton had instilled a terror in him that overrode even his fiercely independent streak. It made him all the more determined that the man would pay – in full – for what he had done.

* * *

Jesse waited until he heard the door close before he allowed his tears to fall. He had already humiliated himself in front of his mentor and he wasn't going to further add to his shame.

He had scarcely been able to recognise his own voice as he hesitantly asked for the light to be left on – but he'd had no choice but to ask. The very prospect of being left in the dark filled him with a terror that he couldn't even being to describe. And he had no clue as to its cause.

He had never been afraid of the dark – at least not for many, many years. Memories of his nightmares crept back upon him – of the longest night of his life, trapped by Wayne in the cellar. Even after that, he hadn't slept with the light on. Wayne hadn't allowed it. He'd laughed at the boy's fears and used it to further belittle him. Then he had taken great pleasure in plunging his room into darkness – issuing dire warnings as to what would happen if he dared turn the light back on.

Why had that fear come back to him now? He couldn't understand – and the fact that he had no memory of whatever had befallen him was equally disturbing. He had been hurt – badly hurt if the bruises on his torso were anything to go by. Then there were the bandages on his wrists and shoulder. He had no idea as to what injuries lay beneath those dressings, but surely he should have had some memory of them being inflicted.

Instead, whenever he tried to remember, his mind was filled with the image of Wayne Burton and the memory of the things he had done to him. And it had reawakened his childhood fears.

He had lost time before – there was still a five day gap in his memory from the time he had been kidnapped by Perris Pharmaceuticals. But, on that occasion he had been drugged and false memories implanted in an effort to destroy his reputation and his credibility.

This time was different. This time, he knew, he should remember. Mark had told him that Bill Burton had been asking questions about Wayne. That meant he must have been conscious for at least some of his captivity. So why could he remember nothing more than the gentle motion of a car and bright, harsh lights shining over his head?

* * *

Steve was waiting impatiently outside Jesse's room when his father emerged: "How is he?" he demanded, almost before the door had even closed.

"He's scared, hurting and a little overwhelmed," Mark sighed in response. "Everything you'd expect, considering what he's been through."

"Can I see him?"

"I really don't think that would be a very good idea right now," Mark answered, with a slight shake of his head. "He's tired and needs to rest. He certainly isn't up to answering any questions."

"I didn't want to see him as a cop, dad," Steve protested. "I just wanted to see that he's okay." He peered in through the half-closed blinds. "He looks upset."

"He is upset." He wasn't about to mention the real reason why and settled instead for a half-truth. "He has no memory of what happened and that's bound to be disturbing."

"Do you think that he'll ever remember?"

"I'm not convinced that there's anything for him to remember," his father replied. "He had regressed back to his childhood so completely… He wasn't in that cellar – he was somewhere else entirely." He paused and looked downwards. "Steve, how much of the case against Burton is going to rely on Jesse being able to testify?"

"Hopefully, none at all," the detective answered. "The way that we found them and Jesse's injuries… And Burton's already confessed by pleading diminished responsibility." He thrust his hands deeply into his pockets. "A lot more is riding on that psyche evaluation."

"Hmm…"

"What?" There was something about his father's reaction – and the thoughtful look that crossed his face – that piqued Steve's curiosity.

"The LAPD ask for my help as a medical consultant – wouldn't you agree?"

"Yeah." The answer was so obvious that the younger man didn't even try to hide his confusion.

"So what if, say, an arresting officer was looking for a professional opinion – a medical opinion? It wouldn't be at all unusual for them to come to me. Strictly in my role as consultant, of course."

"I understand what you're trying to do, dad." The surge of hope that he'd felt at the thought that his dad might have come up with a plan was swiftly fading. "But you're not a psychiatrist. If you were to declare him fit to stand trial, your testimony…"

"Not me, Steve." Mark offered him a mischievous smile. "But I can recommend a very highly qualified psychiatrist – one who, incidentally, is renowned for her hard-nosed attitude towards criminals who try to cite psychological reasons for their acts, except in the most extreme of circumstances. She's very good and her qualifications are beyond question. In fact, she works right here at Community General. And she just happens to be very fond of a certain Jesse Travis."

"In that case, I think I might just have to recommend her services," Steve responded, with an amused smile of his own – trust his father to come up with such a solution. "I don't suppose you happen to know when she's next working."

"No, but it won't take long to find out."

Steve hesitated, his wistful look towards Jesse's room giving his father the obvious reason why.

"Just give him a little time," Mark murmured, before leading his son gently down the corridor.

TBC


	11. Chapter 11

Rating: T for violence/language

Rating: T for violence/language.

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters of DM. I do own the ones I created.

**Thanks, as ever, for the reviews. I do appreciate each and every one of them.**

Skeletons

Chapter Eleven

Jesse must have slept again because the next time that he opened his eyes, daylight was filtering through the windows. But he was still exhausted and he knew that his sleep had not been restful. He knew that he needed the rest; his body demanded it as it strove to recover.

His mind, unfortunately, had other ideas. It insisted on plaguing him with questions; demanding to know just what had happened during the terrifying blankness that filled his recent memory.

He could understand that Bill Burton's sudden appearance might bring back memories of his childhood – though he had kept them buried deeply, Mark had been right when he'd said that there were scars. But he couldn't understand why they so dominated his every waking thought. And they certainly shouldn't have been powerful enough to block out what had happened in the real world.

Jesse sighed to himself and shifted restlessly. Sometimes he hated the insatiable curiosity that was inherent in his nature. It constantly nagged at him, demanding that he learn more, that he find answers, that he revealed truths. Now was no exception.

But he didn't even know where to start looking. He had been left alone – there was no-one he could ask – and he certainly didn't feel up to getting out of bed and going in search of anyone.

The pain that had greeted him on his awakening reminded him that he was dealing with more than a simple case of amnesia. He had been badly hurt – by Bill Burton, he surmised from what Mark had told him – but he didn't know exactly how. Bandages covered his wounds and the bruises that he could see offered no clues. But that was one mystery that he could go some way towards solving.

He didn't want to tamper with the dressings on his wrists. He knew that he'd have the devil of a time reapplying them – and he could easily imagine Mark's reaction should he ruin his handiwork.

The gauze on his shoulder, however, was another matter entirely.

Carefully, Jesse eased back the edge of the dressing that extended from his right shoulder down his arm, unconsciously wincing in anticipation of what he might find. The raw, bloody flesh that lay beneath did little to enlighten him. He peeled it back further still, his eyes locked on the mess that lay beneath. It was as though the skin had been flayed from his arm.

Jesse gasped in a breath that was almost a sob as a stray memory niggled at the back of his mind. He remembered pain; he remembered terror.

Suddenly, he tore back the entire dressing, exposing his brutalised skin and there, on the edges of the open wound, were the telltale welts – red and raised and ugly. He had thought – prayed – that he would never see such welts again.

He dropped the dressing onto the bed and stared in horror at the unmistakable marks.

_His hand clutching at his abused ribs, Jesse rolled onto his side, burying his head into the pillows in order to muffle the sobs that he could not prevent. Wayne had never hurt him so badly before. A shout from a neighbour – or a passer-by – had stopped his punishment, but not in time to spare him from utter agony. He had cried and he had begged, but that had only served to further enrage his tormentor and still the blows had rained down on him._

"_Why didn't you come, dad?" he whimpered, softly – too afraid to make any further noise; knowing what his punishment would be if he did. "Why?"_

_He had awoken that morning full of excitement. His case was already packed and he spent the morning staring out of the window looking for the familiar figure of his father. He was spending three whole weeks with the man and had been looking forward to it for what felt like forever._

_Noon came and went and his mom began to try and prepare him for the fact that he might not come. Jesse had refused to believe her. It was his dad – they had made plans for those three weeks. It was going to be the best summer of his life._

_Two hours later – after his mom had been called into work – he was in his room, crying desperately from the pain of the beating and the betrayal of his father's absence._

_He had never felt so lonely in his life before._

* * *

"So, what do you think?" Mark asked his son as they headed towards the doctors' lounge. They had just been to see Patricia Carter, the psychiatrist he had previously referred to.

"I think that Burton doesn't stand a chance," Steve responded with a grim smile. Doctor Carter had been formidable indeed and, when told the details of the case, her confidence that she would be able to shatter that line of defence had been emphatic. When she'd learnt that it was Jesse who had so suffered at his hands, she had taken out a notebook and begun making preparations for the evaluation that afternoon.

She had also given both men their first positive news in what felt like an age. Burton was going to be punished – and to the full extent of the law – for what he had done. It was one less thing to worry about and there was no need to even mention the diminished responsibility plea to Jesse, who needed no further trauma in his life.

As Steve poured them both a coffee, Mark sagged into one of the hard-backed chairs. He had slept, badly, in the on-call room. There was still the very real threat that Jesse might suffer from nightmares – that they might cause a relapse – and he wanted to be on hand to stave them off before they could cause him any harm. And, though he hadn't been called to his friend, he was unwilling to believe that the nightmare was over.

Just then, his pager sounded. With a muffled groan, he squinted at the digital display. Then he was on his feet in an instant. His belief had been right.

"Steve, I'm needed in Jesse's room."

He didn't need to say any more. The coffee was forgotten as the father and son headed back out into the corridor at a run.

When they arrived at their destination, the sight that met them shocked both men to a momentary halt. Jesse was lying on his side, curled up foetally and the whip marks on his arm were completely exposed. The dressing that Mark had applied had fluttered to the floor.

"Oh, Jesse," he murmured, breaking out of his stasis. "What have you done?"

A nurse – the same nurse who had paged Mark – stood helplessly at his bedside.

"I can't… He won't respond." The young woman looked scared and Mark could hardly blame her. He had witnessed Jesse's regression back in the cellar and it had scared him.

"It's alright, I'll take over here." He moved to sit on the edge of Jesse's bed and reached out to gently touch his arm – but the blonde head merely turned further away from him, burrowing more deeply into the pillows. Mark could still hear his quiet crying. It sounded like his heart was breaking.

* * *

_He felt the bed dip as someone sat down on it, but he couldn't bring himself to look up. The only person he wanted at that moment in time was his father – and he wasn't there._

"_Now, Jesse," his mother's voice reached him through his heartache, but was not enough to stop the sobs that were torn from him. "I know you're disappointed, but this isn't going to change anything."_

_He wanted to answer her; wanted to tell her exactly what his father's failure to arrive had cost him; wanted to roll over and show her the welts on his ribs. But he couldn't. If he did then Wayne would kill him. Then he would kill her. He began to cry even harder._

"_Jesse, stop that." His mom's voice took on a more impatient tone. "You're not a baby. I know that you were looking forward to spending some time with your dad, but it's not the end of the world. They'll be other holidays."_

"_B… but why, mom?" Jesse managed to stammer, his voice still muffled by the pillow. "Why?"_

"_You should know better than to ask why your father does anything." Familiar bitterness coloured her tone. "You know that he's never given much thought to anyone other than himself."_

"_But he promised…"_

"_Your father never was very good with promises." The words were muttered almost to herself. "Come on, Jesse." The sudden brightness in her voice sounded false even to him. "It won't be so bad. I've got a few days off and we can go out somewhere. How about Lake Michigan? You'd like that wouldn't you?"_

"_Yeah," Jesse whispered, knowing that his mom was trying her best and unwilling to disappoint her. "Yeah, that would be nice."_

* * *

"Jesse, son, can you hear me?" A part of Mark knew that his effort was futile, but he couldn't just not try. "Jesse, it's Mark Sloan. You're in the hospital; you're safe. Jesse?"

"Why now, dad?" Steve hovered by his father's shoulder, seeing for the first time the full extent of what was meant by regression. It was unnerving to see his normally ebullient friend so shattered and broken. "I mean, I could understand back in that house, but he knows the hospital – this is where he belongs. What could have triggered this in here?"

"I'm afraid that it was Jesse himself," Mark answered, grimly. "He couldn't remember what happened, so he wanted to find out. You know he can't resist a mystery." The faintest of smiles touched his lips, but was instantly gone as he gestured towards the visible wound on his shoulder. "Then he saw how Bill had hurt him and it was exactly the same as his brother did to him all those years ago."

"Damn," Steve swore, softly. "It's not…" He paused, uncertain of how to put his fears into words. "I mean, he will be okay, won't he? He will just… snap out of it again?"

"I don't know, Steve." The answer did little to reassure him. "The human mind is incredibly complex and there's still so much that we don't understand about it. All we can do is keep trying to get through to him."

"And if it doesn't work?"

"I really don't know." He sighed as he was, once again, forced to admit ignorance. "In the cellar Dane was the only one who could reach him – and even that didn't bring him back to us."

"Dad?" Steve's eyes were riveted to the still weeping form of his best friend. "Can… can I try?"

* * *

_Jesse had barely slept at all that night. His physical pain and deep emotional hurt wouldn't allow him to. _

_His mom had insisted on him going down to dinner and, as he descended the stairs, the look on Wayne's face had been enough to utterly destroy his appetite. He had looked ready to kill him on the spot. But not eating wasn't an option. Wasting food was yet another sin and he choked down every last morsel of his dinner – all the while feeling Wayne's eyes boring into him, almost as if he were willing him to do or say the wrong thing so that the punishment could begin all over again._

_Then, when he had stood in the kitchen washing the dishes, Wayne had crept up behind him. Jesse jumped at the sudden sound of his voice but, thankfully, didn't drop the plate that he had been holding. As he put it in the rack to drain, Wayne grasped hold of his arm and whirled him around to face him._

"_You little runt," he hissed, his voice low, but no less venomous for it. "Now look what you've done. Just because your father doesn't want you, I've had to cancel our holiday."_

_Jesse's eyes filled with tears at the vicious words, but Wayne had still not finished tormenting him._

"_We were going to Paris, your mother and I – but now we can't," he went on. "Because your dad couldn't even stand to take care of you for three weeks." His grip on Jesse's arm was painful, but the words hurt a whole lot more. "Three lousy weeks, that's all that we asked of him, but he couldn't even stand the sight of you for that long."_

_It was the cruellest thing he could have possibly said to the boy and each word hammered into Jesse like a physical blow. Tears spilled down his cheeks, even though he knew that Wayne saw them as a sign of weakness, as a sin deserving of punishment. But he couldn't have stopped them if his life had depended on it._

"_What have I told you about snivelling?" The retribution wasn't long in coming, even though it was the man himself who'd caused those tears. He raised his hand and Jesse flinched from the blow that was bound to follow._

_Then his mom's voice sounded from the direction of the lounge, asking Wayne just how long it took to fetch a bottle of wine._

_The threatening hand was lowered, but Jesse's arm wasn't immediately released._

"_Finish your chores and then go to your room," he snarled, shaking the terrified child. "If I had my way you'd be spending the whole damned summer up there."_

* * *

Mark had feared that his son's efforts to get through to Jesse would be fruitless and those fears were turning out to be thoroughly justified. It wasn't for the want of trying. Steve was talking himself hoarse; reminding Jesse – it seemed to Mark – of every moment that they had spent together.

As the doctor went about applying a fresh dressing to the injured shoulder, he found himself smiling in fond remembrance as Steve recounted how they had tried to fool him into stumping up the money they needed to buy BBQ Bob's. Mark had played along; had let them believe that they had got one over on him, before nonchalantly informing Steve that he had known all along what they were up to.

It had been a bright moment in a dark time – coming not long after Caitlin Sweeney's bomb had torn through Community General. Steve didn't dwell on that. He didn't dwell on any of the negatives in the stories that he told. He concentrated only on the good times: the barbeques and the surfing; the beach house and Jesse's successful career.

It was a commendable effort, Mark thought, but it was also a useless one. Jesse had stopped weeping, but he still hadn't so much as raised his head from the pillow. And when Mark did catch a glimpse of his eyes, they were wide open, but focussed about a million miles away.

* * *

_He lay with his eyes wide open, but staring at nothing. He was trying to forget the awful things that Wayne had said, but that was proving to be impossible – and it was making sleep as elusive as ever._

_They were going to Paris. They had asked – had __**asked**__ – his father to look after him; a clear indication that his dad had never offered and then Dane had let them down. The holiday plans were ruined. Instead, they would have to put up with him for the summer. No wonder Wayne had been so angry._

_Though there was no conceivable way that it was his fault, Jesse felt the weight of responsibility settle on his young shoulders. Not only responsibility for having ruined his mom's summer, but also for his father not being there. Though he didn't know what he had done so wrong to make his dad so loathe to visit him, he rarely knew what he did that was so wrong to make Wayne hurt him. He only knew that he was to blame – somehow, and despite his best efforts, it was all his fault._

_He heard footsteps on the stairs and realised that his mom must have been retiring for the night. She always went to bed earlier than Wayne. He didn't even close his eyes. He had no need to feign sleep for a mother who never came in to give him a kiss goodnight._

_Then his door slowly opened and his heart almost stopped; his breath catching in his throat in sudden panic._

"_Jesse?" Utter relief swamped him as his mom's voice carried across the room. "Jesse, why aren't you asleep?"_

_He snuffled softly, not trusting himself to speak- and heard her sigh in what sounded like exasperation. _

"_Jesse, if it will make you feel any better, I'll call your dad in the morning. I'll find out why he didn't turn up and arrange for him to pick you up another day."_

"_I'm sorry, mom." He couldn't stop thinking about her holiday that he had ruined. She worked so very hard, she deserved a holiday – and he had taken it from her. "I'm sorry about Paris."_

TBC


	12. Chapter 12

Rating: T for violence/language.

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters of DM. I do own the ones I created.

**Apologies for the delay in updating, but work got in the way again! Thanks, as ever, for the reviews. **

Skeletons

Chapter Twelve

"And the next time we saw her, she was out jogging with some other guy." Steve's voice was beginning to show the strain, but he refused to be daunted by the lack of response that his words elicited.

"I'm sorry about Paris."

Jesse's hoarse voice almost caused Steve to fall off the edge of the bed, so unexpected was the sound.

"Jess…" He leaned forwards more intently.

Then he felt a strong hand drop onto his shoulder and looked up to see his father staring compassionately down at him.

Mark was just about to explain that it was futile; that, though Jesse had turned his head slightly, his eyes were still glazed and distant – not looking at Steve, but straight through him, obviously seeing somebody else. He was as far away from them as ever. But, before he could say any of this, there was a gentle knock at the door. It opened even before Mark had the chance to respond and Patricia Carter poked her head into the room.

"I know you said that Jesse doesn't remember very much," she said, advancing further in. "But I wondered if… Oh, my…"

Her eyes had alighted on Jesse and, as it had both Mark and Steve, the sight shocked her to a standstill. The bruises were livid and a multitude of bandages hid countless other injuries, but it was his eyes that held her so compelled. They were blank and empty and so far away – it was obvious that he was not merely daydreaming.

"Mark?" Her look was distinctly reproachful as she levelled her gaze on the older man. "You asked for my help regarding some criminal; didn't you think that Jesse could benefit from my assistance as well?"

"Patricia, I'm sorry." Mark looked away, somewhat abashed. It went without saying that she was much more qualified to deal with his friend than he would ever be and he could see how his neglecting to mention Jesse's condition might seem something of a snub. "I just… I thought… Well, hoped…"

"I understand, Mark. He's your friend." Her eyes softened and her mouth turned upwards into a smile. "But why don't you tell me what's been happening and then we'll see if we can help him together."

"It would be best if we talked outside." Mark still wasn't entirely sure what – if anything – Jesse could hear and he wasn't about to take any chances. "Steve?"

"I think I'll just stay here a while," his son answered, glancing forlornly back towards his friend.

He waited until the door had closed behind the two doctors before letting out a heavy sigh. He had genuinely believed that he would be able to get through to Jesse. They had been through so much together and he was convinced that one of those memories would prove to be the key.

Now, he had finally run out of words.

A tiny sliver of guilt wormed its way into his heart; along with something else – something that he couldn't quite identify. He was Jesse's best friend, dammit, he should have been able to reach him. Dane had managed it back in the cellar – even if he hadn't been able to bring him back.

Then he recognised the other emotion that was vying with his guilt. It was resentment. Jesse had heard his father's voice – and his dad had meant nothing to him for years. During those years – or at least the most recent of them – the Sloans had been his family. They – and Amanda – had helped him through some dark and difficult times; as he had helped them all through their own crises. It should have been them who he needed now. He tried to push the emotion away, knowing that Jesse would never willingly turn away from their help, but it persisted; fuelled, he knew, by the fact that there was nothing he could do. His best friend was suffering and he couldn't even touch him, couldn't even try to offer the slightest physical comfort for fear of the young man flinching away.

So Steve dropped his hands uselessly into his lap and licked at his dry lips. He didn't know if his reminders of the times they'd shared were doing any good, but they certainly didn't seem to be doing any harm.

"Hey, Jess," he said, trying to keep his voice purely conversational. "Do you remember when you had to deliver CJ in the back of your car?"

* * *

"I think I can see what the problem might be here."

Mark merely smiled in response to Patricia's words – silently glad that his son had elected to remain with Jesse. He could only imagine the sarcasm that such a statement would have invoked. The problem was easy to see; it was the solution that was proving difficult.

"Now, don't look at me like that, Mark. I know that you don't need a psychology degree to understand that Jesse has regressed back to his childhood." A twinkle of amusement in her eyes took the sting out of the rebuke.

Mark's smile turned rueful. He hadn't realised that he was so transparent, but then this was a professional he was up against.

"What I meant was: I think I know why Jesse has regressed so completely." Patricia was all business again. And, as Mark questioned her merely by raising his eyebrows, she continued: "The events of that year, when Wayne Burton made his life such hell, have only ever existed to the child. The fact that he was murdered and Mrs Travis worked so hard to ingrain that story into Jesse's mind means that the adult Jesse has never had to confront that time."

"So he just buried the memory…" Mark was still none the wiser and it was evident in his tone.

"No," Patricia was quick to correct him. "It's much more complex than that. The memories weren't so much as buried – more like compartmentalised. What happened back then was a lot for anyone to take, let alone a twelve year old child. The abuse was bad enough; the murder even worse. But then his mother ingrained a story into him as to what had happened." She realised how that might have sounded like censure and hurried to explain: "I'm sure that she only did what she thought was right at the time – that her intentions were the very best – but she conditioned Jesse in a sense."

"You make it sound like she brainwashed him," Mark protested. No matter what he thought of Mrs Travis – or her actions – he had no doubt that she would never intentionally harm her son.

"That's a very extreme way of putting it, but it's also not that far from the truth." The psychiatrist smiled at his obvious shock. "Jesse was at a very impressionable age and she taught him exactly what to say if anyone were to ever ask him about what happened to Wayne Burton. The trouble is that nobody ever did. It's sounds as though, until now, he's never even spoken about it. He's never had to take that memory out of its compartment and confront it on adult terms."

"Until now." Finally, the older doctor felt as though he was starting to understand. "And now that he has been asked, he's giving the only answer that he can. The little boy's answer – and that's why his mind has taken him back there, because that's the only place where those answers exist."

"Exactly."

"So, now that we've identified the problem, what do we do about it?" Mark fetched two fresh mugs of coffee and placed them on the table.

"Well, Jesse really needs to confront this on adult terms. Somebody has to find some way to reach him, to make him listen and then talk to him as an adult – as who he is now, not who he was then."

"But how are we supposed to do that?" Mark asked, unable to keep the helplessness out of his voice.

"You said that Dane managed to reach Jesse when you found him in the cellar – that Jesse at least responded to him," Patricia reminded him.

"That's right." Mark stroked his moustache in a familiar gesture of concentration. "But it was the child Jesse who responded. It was…" He shook his head, remembering how frightening those faltering words had been. "I've never seen anything like it…"

"I can imagine." Patricia's response was sympathetic, but she didn't have time to dwell on it. Having heard what Jesse had endured, she was doubly determined to see Bill Burton face trial fully compos mentis – and she still had some preparations to do before her evaluation of the man. "But he did respond, which is more than he's doing now."

"I did have a theory about that." Mark smiled at her raised eyebrow and pressed on: "I believe that he responded to Dane because he recognised his voice. It's as simple as that. He didn't know either Steve or me back then; our voices would have just been the voices of strangers. But his dad – his dad's was the one voice that he had been longing to hear."

"Very good, Doctor Sloan." She dipped her head in acknowledgement. "Are you sure you don't have a psychology diploma hidden away in your office?"

"Absolutely not," her colleague chuckled in response. "And I'm quite happy to defer to your expertise on this one. Do you think Dane will be able to reach him again?"

"Has he tried talking to him?" All lightness aside, Patricia got immediately back down to business, but she knew the answer to her question by the way Mark's face clouded over.

"His father hasn't been seen since last night." His disapproval was evident in his voice. "He sat with Jesse for a while – then I went to check on him and Dane said that he had some things to do. He hasn't been back since."

"Well somebody needs to get hold of him and get him back here – for Jesse's sake." She saw the disappointment that flashed across Mark's features and smiled in sympathy. "I'm sorry, Mark. I know how close you are to him, but I really don't think that you're going to be able to help him this time."

Having offered his thanks to Patricia, Mark wandered back to Jesse's room with a heavy heart. It was all very well for her to tell him to contact Dane – actually doing it was a different matter entirely. He already knew just what a difficult task that was – but now, more than ever, Jesse was relying on him.

Inwardly, Mark was seething – wondering just what it was that Dane had needed to do; just what was so important that it meant more to him than the welfare of his only child.

Although he acknowledged that he probably wasn't being fair to Dane – the agent's life wasn't easy and being called away could, literally, be a matter of life and death – that didn't help him to understand. Even life and death would have taken second place had it been his own son lying there, needing him so badly.

_His own son…_

Mark's face creased into a scowl. Though Jesse was not his flesh and blood, he had become a big part of his life over the years. For a long time now, he had considered the young man to be much more than just a friend. His kind, compassionate nature; his infectious humour and ready smile; his generous heart – they had all contributed towards giving Jesse a very special place in his heart. No, the stricken young doctor wasn't merely his friend. He was family.

Mark began to move with a little more purpose. He'd made a quick call before he had left Patricia, instructing the reception staff to leave no stone unturned in their attempts to track down Dane Travis – emphasising how much they needed to stress that it was urgent – but he didn't hold out a great deal of hope. If circumstances had dictated such then there was a chance that the agent wasn't even in the Country any more.

Well, Mark wasn't prepared to wait however long it might take to track the man down. He simply couldn't just sit idly by and do nothing while Jesse suffered. And, though his voice might not be enough to penetrate the nightmare of his memories, he could only pray that the love in his heart – a surrogate father's love – would.

As Mark rounded the corner approaching Jesse's room, he stopped in his tracks as he saw Amanda standing in the doorway and looking in. He moved to join her, clearing his throat softly as he neared her so as not to startle her. She turned towards him and gave him the saddest of smiles.

"I wanted to see how Jesse was," she whispered. "But now I can't go in. I've been standing here for ten minutes and Steve hasn't even realised it yet."

Mark looked beyond her into the room. Steve hadn't moved from his position on the edge of Jesse's bed and he was still talking. Even as he watched, his son's scratchy, tired voice filtered out to him.

"… that damned stupid fake moustache…" He was talking about the time he'd worked as a stunt double and the sadness of the smile this invoked from Mark matched Amanda's.

"I don't understand, Mark," the pathologist murmured. "Has Jesse regressed again? How could that happen? He's safe here."

"I know, honey." Mark kept his voice equally low. "I've been talking to Patricia Carter and I'm afraid that this is just going to keep happening every time that Jesse tries to talk about what happened."

"So what can we do? How can we stop it?"

Mark smiled at her ready offer of help but before he could answer there was movement inside the room. Steve got to his feet and stretched his weary limbs – then did an almost comical double take when he saw his dad and Amanda standing in the doorway.

"I think he's asleep," the detective said in a hushed voice as he approached them. "At least his eyes are closed." He looked back towards his friend. "Is that going to be the end of it? Will he wake up and be alright again?"

"I don't know, Steve. Maybe he will." Mark smiled tiredly. "But even if he does wake up back to normal then it still won't be over. Jesse can't keep hiding away from what happened – he needs to talk about it, come to terms with it."

"But won't he just keep… going back?" Steve shuddered at the prospect. It was unnerving to see his friend in such a state – almost catatonic and totally unaware of those who cared about him. It only made it worse to know just what horrors Jesse was reliving in his waking nightmare. "Can't we just let him forget about this? If he's okay and we don't mention it, then he won't regress again, will he?"

"He isn't going to just forget about it, Steve." The same option had crossed his father's mind, but he had been forced to dismiss it. "He still has the bruises, the marks and something will trigger his regression again, I can guarantee it. It might not be straight away, but it will happen. We need to get him through this – once and for all."

"And how are we going to do that?"

"Patricia Carter seems to think that only Dane will be able to reach him in his regressive state." Mark answered. "Unfortunately, he's done a pretty thorough disappearing act."

"But dad…"

"I said that's what Patricia Carter thinks." Mark interrupted the predictable objection. "I didn't say that I agreed with her."

"What have you got in mind?" Amanda wondered, having known that he would never consider himself to be helpless when a friend needed him.

"We've been going about this the wrong way," Mark explained. "We're not going to reach Jesse by talking about us – about now. We need to go back to then – the place where Jesse is regressing to. Then we have to try and make Jesse confront the events of that year as an adult. He hasn't been able to do that so far, so we have to find some way to make him."

"But how?" Amanda wondered aloud. "If every time he tries to talk about it he's going to regress, how do we keep him here – in the present?"

"I don't think it's a case of keeping him here – it's going to be more like bringing him back. That's why it seems likely that only Dane will be able to do that. He's the only one who can go there and reach Jesse."

"So we're just gonna go in there and force him to talk about it and send him back into that hell..?" Steve shook his head agitatedly. "Dad…"

"I would never intentionally do anything to harm Jesse, Steve. But there's no guarantee that he will be back with us when he wakes up. He might still be twelve years old. What then?" Mark clearly wasn't happy, but he could see no alternative. "What then? Do we just lock him up until we can get Dane here to try and bring him back? I don't know where his father's gone, Steve – and I don't know when he's coming back. And I will not stand by and watch that young man suffer. I can't – any more than I could if it were you lying in there."

TBC


	13. Chapter 13

Rating: T for violence/language

Rating: T for violence/language.

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters of DM. I do own the ones I created.

**Thanks, as ever, for the reviews. **

Skeletons

Chapter Thirteen

For the second time in as many days, Mark sat at Jesse's bedside waiting for him to wake up.

He had asked Steve and Amanda to leave them alone – and they had both gone, albeit under protest. Mark hoped that Jesse would awaken before they ran out of patience and returned – as he knew would happen. He wasn't being selfish, but he didn't want the younger man to be overwhelmed. And, if he hadn't returned from his regressive state, it would be one hell of a shock for Amanda, especially.

"Mark?"

A tentative voice jerked him rudely back to the present and he glanced down to see Jesse staring back at him – bemusement written clearly across his expressive features.

"I'm sorry, Jesse," he smiled, recovering quickly. "I was just doing a little wool gathering there. How are you feeling?"

"Umm… I don't…" Jesse's face twisted into a scowl. "I don't remember a whole lot. Was I awake before?"

"A couple of times now, Jess, but just for a short while." He was careful to keep the relief – that Jesse did indeed seem back to normal – out of his voice.

"I…" His voice continued to be hesitant as he sought the memory. "You were here… And… Oh." _Will you please leave the light on?_ That memory stood out stark and clear in his mind. His eyes dropped to the bedclothes as he felt embarrassment rush up to assail him.

"Jess?" Mark leant in closer, clearly concerned.

"I was, um… I was afraid of the dark…" The words were little more than a whisper.

"It's alright, son," the older man strove to reassure him. "You went through quite an ordeal."

"But I don't remember!" Jesse's voice was stricken and the eyes that flickered upwards were filled with tears. "I don't even know how I got here, or who hurt me, or why. I don't understand, Mark."

It had been bound to happen. Jesse's insatiable curiosity had made this conversation inevitable – but Mark wasn't sure if either of them were ready for it.

He tried to work out the best way to answer Jesse, privately wishing that he had more than just a passing acquaintance with psychology. Anything that he said held the potential to send Jesse spiralling back into his nightmare – and he already knew from in the cellar that his voice alone would not be enough to reach him if that were to happen.

He thought of the little that he knew about the younger man's past, but there was nothing to help him there. He had met his mom just the once; his dad on a few more occasions – but other than that, he knew nothing about his family. There were cousins – one in particular called Morty had often cropped up in conversation – and that suggested aunties and uncles. And of course, he would have had friends; and teachers; and neighbours. But Mark knew nothing about any of them – he certainly didn't know who – if anyone – the child Jesse had trusted and confided in.

"Mark?"

Again, Jesse's voice dragged him back to the present and he gave himself a mental shake. He had taken it upon himself to help Jesse and he wasn't going to do that if he kept allowing himself to become so easily distracted.

"I'll tell you what I can Jesse," he said, offering the younger man a warm smile. "But I want you to remember that you're safe here. You've nothing to be afraid of and no more harm will come to you. I'll make sure of that."

"I… I know you will, Mark." Jesse's responding smile was shy and sweet and so filled with trust that it gave Mark the first glimmer of hope that he might be successful in his self-imposed mission after all.

"I don't know if you remember me telling you before, but it was Bill Burton who abducted you. He wanted to know what happened to his brother – and was determined to get the answers from you. That's why he hurt you." He smiled in sympathy as Jesse's forehead creased into a frown. "Do you remember any of that?"

"No…" Jesse's answer was a whispered sigh. "I… I saw a garage – bright lights above me… And there was a shadow…"

"Easy, Jess…" Mark murmured, watching as Jesse's hands tightened convulsively into the bedclothes. "Remember how I told you that you're safe…"

"'m sorry…" The shy smile returned and Jesse relaxed marginally, only to suddenly tense again as there was a soft knock at the door.

"Hey, there." Amanda poked her head into the room. Steve had left the hospital and, left alone, she'd quickly found the waiting impossible. "Am I interrupting anything?"

Mark was sorely tempted to say yes, she was interrupting, but something stilled his tongue. Though he had felt as though he was starting to get through to his friend, he knew that they still had a long way to go – and the more familiar faces that surrounded him, the safer Jesse would feel.

"Not at all," he answered, with a smile. "Come on in. I was just trying to explain to Jesse a little of what happened – not that I know a great deal."

"Hi, Amanda." Jesse summoned up a smile of his own as she stepped into the room.

"Hey, you." She, too, was almost overwhelmingly relieved to see him looking almost like his old self. "How are you feeling?"

"Um… okay, I guess…" The response was far from convincing. At her raised eyebrow, he looked away sheepishly. "I just… I wanna remember what happened. I don't… I don't understand why I don't remember."

Amanda exchanged a glance with Mark, wondering just how much he'd told their mutual friend before she had got there. It was something that they had discussed earlier: the best way to handle Jesse's inevitable questions.

"_The last thing I want to do is overwhelm him," had been his sage advice. "Sooner or later he's going to find out why he can't remember and it's going to be hard enough for him to deal with the fact that he regressed so completely. He's going to be embarrassed and ashamed."_

"_But he shouldn't feel like that," Amanda had protested. _

"_I know he shouldn't, but I also know Jesse – and he will." Mark had smiled grimly as both Steve and Amanda recognised the truth in his words. "It's up to us to stop him. I don't want to do this just to push him even further away."_

"_So you are going to tell him?" Steve had asked, sombrely._

"_He's got to know the truth, eventually. But I would prefer it if he was able to remember for himself."_

Recalling what Mark had said, Amanda took the vacant chair at the side of Jesse's bed.

"Just what exactly do you remember?" she asked him, gently.

"Like I said to Mark, it was just some garage lights and then this shadow…" He trailed off and looked at her helplessly. "After that it's… I don't know… There were nightmares…"

"Can you remember those, honey?" Though the question was asked in the same, soft voice – Amanda knew just how potentially devastating it might prove to be. From his seat on the edge of the bed, Mark reached out to give her hand a reassuring squeeze.

"The… the nightmares?" Jesse was understandably confused by the question. What did his nightmares have to do with anything? Then he saw the gently encouraging smiles that both Mark and Amanda aimed in his direction and knew that he couldn't deny them. "I, um… he hurt me…"

The other two people in the room exchanged a meaningful glance as the young man's voice dropped to a whisper. It was make or break time and, unconsciously, they both leaned in closer to their friend.

"He wouldn't let me sleep with the light on." Jesse closed his eyes, seeming oblivious to their presence. "I was scared, all of the time… So scared…"

"It's alright, Jesse." Mark felt that it was time to intervene – to gently remind him that he had no reason to be scared any more. "You're safe. It's alright."

"Mark's right." Amanda's soothing tones gave truth to his words. "We're right here, honey. You don't have to be afraid."

"I know that, but…" Blue eyes opened and glanced briefly in their direction – then he quickly looked away. "It was dark… and I… There were spiders and rats and… Oh God, please don't leave me here…"

"Jesse!" Mark barked with sudden urgency – seeing the exact moment that the regression began and knowing from Amanda's shocked gasp that she had seen it too. "Jesse, it's alright, son."

"Please come back…" The plea that escaped Jesse's lips was small and pitiful – and barely audible; as though, even in his terror, he was afraid of making too much noise. "Please don't leave me…"

Amanda's heart lurched as tears began to trickle from Jesse's eyes – that were, again, tightly closed. Jesse had always had something of a 'little boy' about him and he had always brought her maternal instincts to the fore – not that she would ever admit such a thing to him. Seeing him essentially twelve years old again brought those instincts surging to the surface.

Before Mark could stop her – or warn her as to Jesse's aversion to being touched in his regressive state – she had risen from her chair. All she could see was a frightened, crying child. A child who had been bullied and abused and starved of love. She did what she would do for any child who had been treated so badly – who needed one thing more than anything else in the world. She gathered him into her arms and held him in a tight, warm, loving embrace.

"It's alright, honey," she crooned, rocking him gently. "Nobody's going to leave you. Nobody's going to go anywhere. We're right here, sweetheart. Right here."

Mark had half risen when Amanda had moved so suddenly, anticipating a cry of fear from Jesse – or at least a flinch away. He had feared that she, too, would need comfort for having provoked such a reaction.

But he wasn't needed. He could only watch in silent wonder as Jesse collapsed into her embrace.

Amanda had done what he had been unable to do – and Mark felt a brief hint of jealousy that she had been able to reach him so easily. He pushed it swiftly to one side. Amanda had been acting on instinct alone and Jesse had reacted the same. The child didn't know who held him – he just knew that he was warm and safe and, most importantly, not alone.

Mark couldn't even begin to guess who Jesse was imagining to be holding him – Amanda didn't belong in that time any more than he did. Maybe he was seeing his mother, or a trusted aunt, or a kindly neighbour. It didn't matter. What mattered was that he was feeling her touch, hearing the soothing words that she continued to murmur.

They had reached him – now it was just a case of bringing him back.

_If he closed his eyes and pretended really hard then he could almost believe that he wasn't still trapped in the cellar. He wasn't cold and tired and too scared to even try and sleep for fear of what might be lurking in the dark. He could almost believe._

_But pretending had never worked before – not when he flinched at the slightest sound; not when a gentle waft of air against his cheek almost reduced him to hysteria as his fertile imagination conjured up all sorts of horrors – but still he kept on trying. Anything other than face up to those horrors._

_He tried to picture his bed; his nice, warm, cosy, __**safe**__ bed – where nothing could harm him and there was nothing to fear. But every time he got close to completing the illusion, the slightest noise would jerk him back into the cellar and the image would fracture into a thousand pieces, leaving him to slowly, painstakingly try and rebuild it again._

_Except, this time, that wasn't happening. This time, the image was staying with him. He could feel the pillow beneath his head and the warmth of the blanket that covered him. The bitter cold was seeping out of his bones and he leant into the comforting arms that surrounded him. _

_He had never felt so warm, so safe, so cherished._

That was wrong. Those feelings didn't belong in his childhood. They belonged in another time and place – not the cellar, not his nightmare. They were feelings that he associated with his new family; the close circle of friends he'd made since moving to LA and who were so much more than that. Jesse's eyes suddenly snapped open as he was jerked rudely back to the present.

It was Amanda who held him as she sat by his pillow. Mark was the other side of him, regarding him with open concern.

"What..?" he murmured, thoroughly confused.

"Jesse?" Amanda's voice was uncertain, tentative – almost as though she wasn't sure that it was him she was speaking to.

"'Manda?" He turned his tear-filled eyes towards her, his confusion not diminishing one iota. He glanced to the other side of the bed. "Mark?"

"It's alright, Jesse." It was his mentor who answered. Amanda, her face streaked with tears, seemed lost for words. "You're safe now. It's over."

"What..?" he could only repeat, helplessly. Amanda still had her arm around him, but he shrugged her away and reached up one shaking hand to rub the wetness of tears from his cheeks. "I don't… What just happened?"

"Do you remember anything, Jesse? Anything at all?"

"I…" He hadn't been in the hospital bed – of that he was certain. He had been somewhere dark and cold. Then there were the tears – that he had no memory of shedding – and the way that his entire frame still shook from the force of his sobs. "No, Mark. What happened? What the hell is wrong with me?"

Mark bit his lip and his steady gaze faltered. This was the moment he had been dreading. Now that Jesse had come straight out and asked the question, he was left with no choice. He had to tell him. Lying was not an option and nor was merely saying nothing. His friend had a right to know. He took a deep breath. This was not going to be easy.

"Jesse, you've been reliving the time that Wayne Burton was at your mother's house. I know it was a very traumatic time for you and it looks like Bill Burton has triggered those memories."

"What?" The confusion still hadn't left the younger man's eyes.

"Your mind took you back to those dreadful days." Mark shook his head, hearing again those terrified whimpers. "You were, essentially, that boy again."

"I… I was a boy..?" Jesse's face creased into a frown. "I don't… I don't understand…"

"It's complicated, Jesse. But basically, you regressed back to…"

"R… regressed?" His eyes met Mark's and they were still overly bright, the tears barely held in check. "I thought… I thought they were nightmares…"

"No, Jesse." Mark looked at him, sadly. "You were reliving those awful times in your head."

"But why? How?"

"I don't know for certain, but Patricia Carter…" Mark had only been seeking to reassure his young friend – but, had he known the effect that his words were going to have on him, he would have held his silence.

"Patricia Carter?" The name stood out from everything else that Mark had said. "You've been talking to a shrink about me?"

"No… Well, not exactly…" The older man floundered for the words that would put the situation right. "I asked for Patricia's help on an unrelated matter." That wasn't strictly true, but now was not the time to mention Burton's diminished responsibility plea. "She came to confer with me on that and…"

"She was here?" Jesse's distress continued to grow as the implications of those words sank in. "She saw me?"

Mark could only nod in response, sharing his friend's heartache. It was only too easy for him to see what was going through the young man's mind and, while it was one thing for Mark to tell him that he didn't have anything to be ashamed of, making Jesse believe it was another matter entirely.

Even as that thought crossed his mind, Jesse's eyes closed and a flush of embarrassment coloured his cheeks.

"Who else?" he whispered, sounding as though he really didn't want to know the answer to that question.

"Jesse…"

Mark barely even had the time to formulate his answer before the door swung open and Steve entered. The detective was looking pleased with himself, but the smug grin on his face quickly faded as he picked up on the strained atmosphere in the room.

"What's up?" He approached the bed somewhat cautiously, remembering the last time he had been in that room. "Jesse?"

The young man in question cracked one eye open, saw the suddenly pensive expression on Steve's face and sighed deeply: "You too, huh?"

"Me too, what?"

"Steve, Jesse knows what's been happening to him." It was Mark's sombre voice that responded.

"Yeah, I know I've been going completely psycho on you." There was a wealth of pain and bitterness in Jesse's voice and he still refused to look at any of his friends.

"Nobody thinks that you're crazy, Jess," Mark tried to soothe him.

"No? Then why did you see a shrink about me?"

"A shrink?" Steve sounded shocked by the very idea. Like Mark, he never equated Doctor Carter's involvement with Jesse. She was purely helping them put Burton away. "Dad?"

"It was Patricia Carter," Mark explained. He looked hopefully towards his son, knowing that Burton's hearing had been that afternoon. He was rewarded with a nod and the faintest of smiles. Then he returned his attention back to his patient. "And I've already explained, Jesse. I didn't approach her regarding you. It was just an unfortunate coincidence."

"Yeah, right."

"Jess…"

"I don't wanna talk about it." His eyes remained steadfastly shut. "I just… I want to be by myself."

"Jesse…" Amanda's compassion filled voice reached him, but he leant away from her comforting touch.

"Please," he murmured. "Please, just leave me alone."

Mark saw the reluctance in both Steve and Amanda's eyes as Jesse effectively dismissed them – but he nodded at them both sadly, indicating that it was for the best that they should go. However, he made no move to follow them.

It didn't take Jesse very long to realise that his wishes hadn't been fully complied with. He opened one eye: "I asked you to leave me alone."

"I know you did, Jesse." Mark was completely unphased by the hint of hostility in those words. "But I've no intention of doing that."

"Why? Are you scared that I might turn into some screaming kid again?" Jesse was angry – mostly at himself for his lack of control and that anger coloured his tone.

"There is a chance that you might regress again, yes." His colleague's own voice was infinitely calm. "But I also think that there's a bigger chance that you might want to talk about it."

"And there's an even bigger chance that hell might freeze over first!" the young man snapped. He had paid no heed to Mark's explanations about Patricia Carter. He was still reeling from the pain of betrayal that Mark had consulted a psychiatrist about him. "I said I want to be by myself, Mark."

"Jesse…"

"No, Mark! I don't wanna talk to you – and you can't make me!"

If Mark was at all perturbed by the sudden display of petulance then he didn't let it show. Keeping his expression carefully neutral, he reached into his pocket and withdrew a penlight. He shone the beam into first one of Jesse's eyes and then the other.

"What are you doing?" Jesse scowled and tried to twist away.

"I'm making sure that you haven't regressed again," Mark calmly stated. "Because you certainly are behaving like a child."

There was a long moment of utterly shocked silence from the younger man and the look of disbelief on his face bordered on comical. Then a startled giggle escaped his lips – in spite of him clamping one hand over his mouth in an attempt to stop it.

"I can't believe you just said that!" he protested, when he had regained some modicum of composure.

"Are you telling me it isn't true?" Mark responded, the twinkle in his eyes expressing his own mirth.

Every trace of merriment suddenly disappeared from Jesse's face and an overwhelming sense of guilt caused him to lower his eyes.

"Mark, I'm sorry…" He could scarcely believe that he had just lashed out so vehemently when his mentor was only trying to help. "I…"

"It's alright, Jess." Mark didn't even let him complete the mumbled apology. "After what you've been through I don't think anyone could blame you for being a little emotional."

"A little?" Jesse repeated, with barely concealed incredulity. "Mark, I should never have yelled at you like that."

"Well, now that you've calmed down, do you want to hear what Patricia Carter had to say?" He noted the way that his friend's face clouded over at the mention of the psychiatrist's name, but at least there was no further eruption.

"I'm sorry, Mark." Again, he couldn't meet his mentor's eyes. "I don't think I can do that. It's bad enough that everyone knows I'm crazy."

Mark bit down on his exasperation. He had known that progress was bound to be slow. "Jess, will you please stop referring to yourself as being crazy? You're not crazy. At least," he quirkily amended. "No more than usual."

Jesse's lips lifted into a semblance of a smile, but his eyes still portrayed his guilt.

"You know," Mark continued, in that same not-too-serious tone. "There's a very good reason why you regressed in the way you did. I think it might help if you heard it." He raised his eyebrows, expectantly. "And then, when I've told you what Patricia said, maybe you can explain it to me."

The younger man laughed. He couldn't help himself. No matter what residual shame and guilt still haunted him, Mark had reached beyond it and found his good humour – and then had blatantly used it against him.

"Okay." Jesse knew when he was beaten and stopped trying to fight a battle that he had never stood a chance of winning. "But first… Mark, will you tell me what it was like? I mean… what I was like?"

"Alright, Jesse," Mark answered, after regarding his friend for a long moment. "But, if I think it's getting too much for you, I will stop."

"I just… I need to know, Mark." He met the other man's eyes. "I need to know what you saw."

"You were scared, Jesse. Very, very scared." Despite his years of experience, the eminent doctor wasn't entirely sure that he was doing the right thing – but he did know that he had to be doing something. "But that's hardly surprising. We found you in a cellar. You were missing for some hours and it seems likely that you spent the entire time down there."

"I don't remember," Jesse mumbled, looking away.

"I'm not surprised." Mark's eyes softened in sympathy. "It's not the first time you've been trapped in a cellar is it, son? Wayne once did that to you, didn't he?" At the tight nod he received in response, he pressed on: "Bill Burton had also been… He'd beaten you with his belt, Jess."

"My arm…" The young man's eyes dropped to the fresh dressing on his shoulder.

"Yes. And remind me, young man, to have a serious word with you about removing my bandages. I don't put them on just for fun, you know." He had to keep Jesse with him and the most effective way, so far, had been a little light-heartedness – and he smiled as he issued the admonishment, letting Jesse know that he wasn't serious.

The ploy worked again as a cheeky grin lit his friend's face. "Well, I figured you could use the practise."

"Don't forget that I taught you everything you know, _Doctor,_" he reminded him – levelling him a mock indignant stare.

"I know you did." The young man's reply was filled with quiet gratitude.

"Jesse," Mark went on, striving to keep the right balance between levity and sobriety. "Somehow, whether by accident or design, Bill Burton did exactly the same things to you that his brother did all those years ago. Is it any wonder that you went back?"

"I guess…" Jesse didn't seem overly convinced. "But… But Mark, I really thought I'd got over it, you know? I mean, I haven't even thought about it for years and the nightmares stopped and…" He trailed off, again lowering his eyes. "And I guess I've been kidding myself, haven't I?"

"Hiding from it, perhaps."

"I mean," Jesse went on as though the other man hadn't spoken. "To get over something you have to face it, don't you? You have to confront it and get past it… And I've never done that. I just kinda… shut it away and pretended it never happened. I've never, you know, really talked about it."

Mark allowed himself a proud smile at his protégé's accurate self-diagnosis. "Maybe now would be a good time to start."

"I dunno." The response was unsurprising. Jesse had never been comfortable talking about his past. "I mean, I can't help but that feel that if Bill Burton hadn't have come along, then I could have spent the rest of my life just… carrying on as I was. I think maybe if he were to go away again…"

"But wouldn't that just be hiding again?" Having made such progress, Mark was determined not to give up. "Don't you think that, now it is out in the open, you'd be better off sorting it out and really getting over it – once and for all?"

TBC


	14. Chapter 14

Rating: T for violence/language

Rating: T for violence/language.

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters of DM. I do own the ones I created.

**Thanks, as ever, for the reviews. **

Skeletons

Chapter Fourteen

Steve and Amanda, banished from where they truly wanted to be, had adjourned to the doctors' lounge.

"I take it that things went well with Patricia Carter then," Amanda said, knowing that she was right by the brief grin that flashed across Steve's features.

"Burton never stood a chance." The detective was unable to keep the smug satisfaction out of his tone. "He'll be facing full charges of kidnapping, unlawful imprisonment and assault. And I don't care how much money he's got – no fancy lawyer's going to get him off this one."

"I think you'll find that's not even going to be an issue." Dane's voice from the doorway startled both of them.

"Christ, Dane – don't you ever knock?" Steve snapped, testily. He had narrowly avoided an accident with his coffee.

"Force of habit – sorry." The agent looked anything but contrite. "I'm sorry I had to leave so suddenly. I had… things to take care of."

"It's not us you should be apologising to," Amanda put in, softly.

"I was just on my way to see Jesse," he retorted, more than a little defensively. "I just thought that you might like to know that Bill Burton won't be hiring anyone. He's going to be one of those unfortunate cases who has to rely on a state appointed attorney."

"What do you mean?" Steve asked, his eyes narrowed. "The guy's loaded."

"He was loaded," Dane corrected him – smiling humourlessly. "An unfortunate incident with the IRS and the State Inspector has resulted in the collapse of Burton Enterprises –or it will in the next day or two. If that man was seeking to gain an inheritance, then all he'll inherit is debt."

"How'd you pull that off?"

"The Company has its fingers in many pies, Lieutenant. I had to call in a few favours and my superiors might have something to say about my misusing certain resources – but, I wanted to hurt him. And I could hardly break into the jail now, could I?" His tone suggested that not only could he do just that, but also that he had seriously considered the option. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to see my son."

* * *

"I'm not sure…" Jesse's voice was hesitant as he contemplated the need to talk about exactly what had happened to him and he was, again, refusing to meet Mark's eyes. "I mean I don't know… I'm kinda… kinda scared."

"Scared, Jesse?" Mark kept his tone infinitely soothing, knowing how much that admission had cost the younger man. "There's nothing to be scared of here. And I'm going to be right with you. You know I won't let any harm come to you."

"I do know that, Mark." He didn't want to seem as though he was doubting his mentor, but he had to give voice to his fears. "But I was here… I mean, when I… I regressed and you and Amanda were here…"

"I won't lie to you, Jesse. There is a chance that you might regress again," the older man answered, frankly. "But I honestly believe that the benefits will outweigh that risk."

"But I… I don't wanna go back there… I mean, what if…" He looked down, fretting at the bedclothes, as though ashamed of his fear. "What if you can't bring me back? What if I stay there?"

"That's not going to happen, Jess. I promise you that," Mark assured him. When his friend still didn't look convinced, he continued: "We got you back the last time, didn't we? It took a while, but you came back. You heard Dane's voice and you responded…"

"Dane's voice? You mean my dad?" Jesse's eyes were wide with shock. "My dad was there? Mark, why didn't you tell me?"

Mark stared at him totally lost for words, wondering how he had – thus far – managed to omit that choice piece of information.

"Jesse, I am so, so sorry." Utter mortification coloured his tone. "I would never intentionally keep something like that from you. Never."

"I'm sorry," Jesse murmured in a small voice. Mark's reaction had left him in no doubt as to his sincerity. "I never meant to accuse you…"

"No, Jess. The fault is all mine." He hurriedly cut his protégé off, knowing that he had no need to apologise. "I can't believe that something so important could slip my mind." He forced a laugh. "I guess I must be getting old."

"It's okay, Mark." The responding smile was equally fake. "It was… it was just a shock, that's all."

"I'll bet it was," Mark answered, wryly. He was still stunned by the sudden turn of events. How was it possible that he hadn't mentioned Dane the whole time that he'd been talking to Jesse? He suspected that he knew the answer, but he wasn't sure that he liked it. Jesse had, over the years, become almost another son to him. Now he didn't want his true father usurping, what he saw as, his rightful place. But that selfishness had now hurt his friend. "I really am sorry, Jesse."

"I, um… I don't understand, Mark…" That much was evident by his tone. "My dad? What was he doing there?"

"You can put it down to the interfering of an old man," Mark mumbled, glancing away somewhat shamefacedly. "I'd been trying to get in touch with Dane to see if I could… Well, Steve and I…"

"You were trying to find out the truth without having to rely on me telling you," Jesse put in, with a sudden flash of intuition. It hadn't been a difficult conclusion to reach – he would probably have done the same. "Mark, I know that you – and Steve – want to know what happened to…" He swallowed heavily. "To Wayne… but I… I can't…"

"Jesse…" Mark's voice was filled with concern as he watched his friend struggle to get the words out.

"I tried to think about it, I really did." Jesse squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to continue – to remain in the present. "But the nightmares… they kept coming back and now… Well, now I know… I guess I was regressing…"

"Jesse, it's alright. Don't try and force it." He reached out the grasp the younger man's hand. "Just take your time."

"But my dad…" Jesse's eyes cracked open and they were brimming with hope. "He came? He really came?"

"Yes, Jesse. He did."

"I can't believe it."

A noise from the doorway – a deep sigh of obvious regret – caused both men to look in that direction. Dane stood there, looking sadly at his son, with eyes that were suspiciously bright.

"D… dad…" Jesse's own eyes were sheened with moisture.

"Dane…" Mark got to his feet as the other man entered the room.

The agent's eyes never once left his son's face, but he addressed his words to Mark: "I need to speak to my son – in private."

"I'm not sure that's a good idea…" Mark tried to object, concerned about Jesse's mental welfare – the danger of him regressing again.

"Please, Doctor Sloan. It is important."

"Mark." A soft touch on the back of his hand drew his gaze back to Jesse. Blue eyes pleaded up at him. "It'll be okay."

If he hadn't so recently been harbouring such selfish – and, he had to admit, jealous – thoughts about Dane's role in Jesse's life then he might not have given in so easily. As it was, he still felt guilty about his lapse and it caused him to make a decision that he would never have normally made.

"I'll be right outside," he said, after pausing for the longest moment. "If anything happens, anything at all…"

"Thank you." Dane dismissed him with those two words.

It was still with some reluctance that he opened the door – then he almost collided with Steve and Amanda who had been just about to enter. He stepped outside and closed the door softly, but firmly, behind him.

"Dad, how's he doing?" Steve asked, looking as though he was about to march straight past his father and into the room, regardless of who might be in there. Dane going to see Jesse had presented both him and Amanda with the perfect opportunity to tag along – and he wasn't about to pass it up.

"It's not a good time, Steve," Mark answered, using his body to halt his son's progress and keeping one hand on the door handle.

"What do you mean 'not a good time'? Dad, has he… you know…" He waved one hand vaguely, still not comfortable with the talk of regression. "Is that why you let Dane go in?"

"No, Steve, he's fine," his father hurried to assure him. "Well, maybe not fine – but he's getting there. He and Dane just have some things to talk about."

"And I think we should be there just in case…"

"No." He stated the word with finality. "Dane asked if they could talk in private. And I've a good idea what they'll be talking about."

Understanding was beginning to dawn in Amanda's eyes, but his detective son seemed to be being deliberately dense.

"But…" Steve tried to argue.

"Steve," Mark interrupted again. He'd tried subtlety and that hadn't worked. He had to tell the truth as to why he wanted to leave the two of them alone. "It's all very well to suspect that Dane killed Wayne Burton, but to hear him confess to it would be something else entirely. It would be something that you would have no choice but to act on."

Steve's eyes widened and drifted past his father and through the half open blinds. So the mystery was about to be solved and his own father was asking him to walk away. Silently, he questioned his conscience. Was this enough? The murder was solved, but the murderer would go unpunished and the case would forever lie open.

Then he saw the way that Dane's head was bowed, the minute trembling in his shoulders. The murderer may not have been punished by the judicial system, but he had punished himself for seventeen long years – for having not put a stop to it sooner, for having left Jesse in the hands of such a monster in the first place. And Steve remembered what Jesse had said back in the cellar – the hopelessness in his voice as he accused his father of abandoning him; that would have hurt Dane more than anything the law could have meted out.

It was enough, Steve decided. It was more than enough.

"It'd be impossible to prove, anyway," he murmured.

* * *

"Jesse, I know how it must seem that I was never there for you." Dane sat on the chair at the side of Jesse's bed. He had wanted to perch on the bed itself – as Mark had been before he'd interrupted – but he didn't feel comfortable being in such close proximity, not even to his son. And not considering what he had gone in there to say. "But I was, Jesse. I told you, when we found you, I was there as soon as I knew that you needed me."

"I don't remember that," Jesse murmured.

"I know, son. But I wasn't just talking about this time." It was Dane's turn to look away. "That summer – the summer that Wayne Burton was killed – I was there then too."

"You never came…" Jesse frowned, remembering his heartache, his endless tears – and wondered if this was what it felt like to regress.

"I did, son. But it was so late when I got there…" Dane sighed and closed his eyes briefly. "I didn't want to disturb you or your mom and I figured that one more day wouldn't hurt. I was going to fetch you the next morning… So I went to a hotel and it turned out that Jimmy Tanner was the night clerk. Do you remember him?"

"_Interfering son-of-a-bitch. Dammit, I should torch the place. He's gonna get his. Jimmy Goddamn Tanner. Calling the cops out…"_

_Jesse watched silently as Wayne paced the lounge, constantly ranting and uttering the direst of threats against their neighbour. His eyes strayed to the front door, praying for it to open, signalling his mom's return home – before Wayne decided to take his formidable temper out on him._

_He had already been warned – in no uncertain terms – what would happen if he dared to mention the visit by the police. _

"Jesse!" Dane saw the tell-tale distance in his son's eyes and strove to snap him out of it. He had gone there with things to say – and he was utterly determined to say them; and for Jesse to hear them. "You know the truth now – you know why I went away. I'm a CIA agent, Jesse. You know that."

_Steve standing helplessly as Dane attacked him from behind. The headlock and Steve crumpling silently to the ground. Dane had killed men with that technique and terror flooded through him._

"_No!" he screamed._

_His best friend couldn't be dead – not murdered by his own father._

Jesse blinked and let out a shaky sigh. The terrors from his childhood had almost dragged him back there but a different terror had brought him back.

"I remember Mr. Tanner," he murmured in response to the question he'd been asked. Jimmy had been a nice guy; he had tried to look out for Jesse. But, as with all their neighbours, Wayne had alienated them from the family.

"Well, he told me all about that bastard." Dane winced and bit his lip at the look of distress that flashed across Jesse's features. He probably equated profanities with violence and he forced down his anger, keeping his tone calm. "He told me some of what had been happening: how he'd had to call the cops and how they were unable to do anything." The look in his eyes almost matched his son's as they both drifted back to that fateful day. "I was at the house first thing the next morning. I needed to talk to your mom… I…." He paused, his emotions threatening to get the better of him as the memory grew more painful. "We talked outside, away from the house, because she didn't want you disturbed. She said you'd cried yourself to sleep that night… God, Jesse, I'm sorry."

"_He doesn't want you," a nasty voice inside his head whispered at him as he tried to quell his tide of bitter tears. Tears of pain from the brutal beating that Wayne had subjected him to, but also tears of utter betrayal, that somehow hurt him more deeply than the blows from the belt ever could. "He doesn't want you to ruin his summer. That's why he never came. That's why he never even called. He hates you. That's why he left. He hates you and he's never coming back." _

_That voice had stayed with him for years._

"Jesse." There was sudden urgency in Dane's voice as he recognised that he was close to losing his son again. "I have something very important to say to you and I need to know that you can hear me."

Dane couldn't have known it, but it was exactly the right thing to say. He was one of the few people who knew what had happened to Wayne Burton – and he was about to reveal all. Jesse's natural curiosity couldn't be quelled and his eyes regained some of their focus: "I'm here," he muttered.

"If you don't believe anything else that I say to you today – you must believe this: Your mom didn't know what was happening, Jesse. I swear that to you. When I asked her if it was true, when I demanded to know why she had done nothing to stop it… She was so shocked, so upset, so angry… She didn't know and I… I'd stood there and accused her of just letting it happen."

Jesse's eyes had closed at the mention of his mother, but they flickered open again moments later and, though they were still slightly glazed, he was looking at – and seeing – his father: "She said she was sorry."

"And I never got the chance to do that." Dane lowered his eyes, years of guilt – that he'd thought he'd come to terms with – suddenly rushing back to assail him. "I never even apologised for letting you down that summer. For not even offering an explanation… God, what must you have thought of me..?"

"That you didn't love me." The words were spoken without rancour, were a simple statement of fact, but they hit Dane straight in the heart and seared his soul.

"That wasn't true, Jesse," he tried to explain.

"I know." A fleeting, sad smile crossed Jesse's lips. He had stopped doubting that his father loved him, once he'd understood the reasons that he'd done what he did. And now he suspected he was about to learn another of those reasons. "Dad… Did you..? Did you kill Wayne?"

"I never went there intending to kill him." Dane offered a sad smile of his own. "I don't know what I intended…" He shook his head. "We must have raised our voices because, suddenly, Wayne Burton was there." He saw Jesse shiver at the mention of that name. "Your mom… she went crazy. She attacked him and I thought she was going to kill him herself. Then Burton grabbed hold of her and he slapped her so hard that she was knocked to the ground." Dane's voice was still filled with quiet fury, even after the passage of so much time. "There was a shovel, leaning against the fence and, before I knew it, it was in my hands. I was so angry… I hit him and I hit him…" There was sadness in his eyes, but no regret. "Yes, Jesse, I killed him."

"Oh…" Jesse murmured, his voice again small and lost. "So that's why you… you had to go. I didn't even know that you were there."

Seventeen years of pain – of having felt that his father had abandoned him, that he didn't love him – were encompassed in that handful of words.

"Apart from your mother, Jimmy Tanner was the only person who knew exactly what happened that day. And he was quite happy to keep the secret." Dane felt tears prick at his own eyes as useless, futile 'what ifs' ran though his head; seeking a return to the past so that he could have found some way to save his only child from such horror. "We thought… Your mom and I… We thought it better if you didn't know…"

"I guess…" In all truth, Jesse couldn't understand just what he was feeling. The entire conversation had left him feeling strangely numb. "But, dad… I don't understand. How come you never told me? I mean, when I found out who you really are and then you told me about Kesslar and I saw you kill that guy in the restaurant. Why didn't you tell me then?"

"Jesse, do you remember when we went to Florida? You'd have been about ten years old."

"Yeah," Jesse fought past his confusion at the sudden change of direction and answered his dad. But the smile that the memory invoked was bittersweet – it had been their last family vacation together.

"I'd already decided what I had to do and I was determined that you'd have the greatest time," Dane went on – seemingly at a tangent. "There was that one day when your mom wasn't feeling too good and we went to the park without her." He smiled in fond reminiscence. "And I lost count of how many hot dogs you ate that day – just because your mom wasn't there to lecture you about junk food. Then you dragged me on all those crazy rides…" Tears stood in the agent's eyes. "And then, right at the end… You… you threw your arms around me and told me that I was the best dad in the whole world."

Jesse couldn't answer. His throat was tight with tears at the power of the memory. It had been one of the very few times that he'd felt truly close to his father. It had also been the last.

"I wasn't the best dad, Jesse. I don't need anyone to tell me that. But just for that one day, for that one moment, then maybe I was. That was how I wanted you to remember me."

Jesse looked away. Maybe he would have – if Wayne Burton hadn't taken his father's place and turned every memory of his childhood into a nightmare.

"Then I left home and you grew up and went on to become a doctor." Dane shook his head as though in awe. "And I don't think I've ever told you how very proud I am of you."

"It's okay, dad." As was so often the case, Jesse shied away from the praise.

"Yes, I was very proud… But I was also very, very scared." Jesse's head shot up at that one, but his father wasn't even looking at him. "My son – my boy – had just qualified as a doctor. He had taken this wonderful vow to save lives. And I spent all of my time taking them. I was scared that you'd hate me."

"Dad…"

"That's why I didn't want you to know, Jesse." At last Dane's eyes focussed back on him. "And, if circumstances hadn't dictated otherwise, then I would have continued to keep it from you. I know I've given you a lot of reasons to hate me over the years, but you never did. You were always there. I know we didn't… see each other…"

"Dad…" His father was never going to do it, so it was Jesse who reached out and clasped his hand. "It's okay, dad. Really."

It had taken him a long time to come to terms with his father's choice of profession – but he had. The world was an ugly place and there would always be the need for secret agents and the death that they dealt in. It was the only way to keep their Country safe.

But he still couldn't keep a tear from trickling down his cheek at his father's confession.

"Jesse, I'm sorry." Dane looked down at the hand that held his, wondering why he hadn't been the one to precipitate the contact. "For everything."

* * *

Mark stood outside looking in. He wasn't spying, but he wanted to keep an eye on Jesse – to be there should he be needed. It wasn't just the danger of Jesse regressing again that held him there. He knew that the conversation with his dad was going to be difficult.

Not for the first time, he thanked his lucky stars for the closeness that he shared with his own son. They had their disagreements – as every family did – but it was never serious and never damaging. They could talk freely and easily about anything and frequently did. And they had always, always been there for each other.

Mark offered up a silent prayer that Jesse might be able to find even a little of that closeness with his own father. The brief flare of resentment – of jealousy – that he'd felt for Dane had passed and he realised that, no matter how close he was to Jesse, his young friend did need his true father in his life. He had been through so much: abandoned and abused, starved of his parent's love – he must have spent years feeling as though he had no-one.

And now that Dane was here, it wouldn't change the way that Mark felt about Jesse – nor, he suspected, Jesse he. That young man had love enough to spare for all of them. Mark could only pray that the conversation between them – however difficult – was going well.

Then his eyes strayed to Jesse's face and he straightened up, worriedly. A single tear was snaking down the young man's cheek and, though Mark was loath to interfere, he couldn't simply stand by and watch his friend suffer. But, before he could even move, Jesse met his eyes. He must have seen the concern there even through the blinds – and he offered his mentor a reassuring smile.

TBC


	15. Chapter 15

Rating: T for violence/language

Rating: T for violence/language.

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters of DM. I do own the ones I created.

**Thanks, as ever, for the reviews. **

Skeletons

Chapter Fifteen

"Jesse." Dane clasped his free hand to his son's. "You know that I can't stay."

It was all that the young man could do to nod in response. He had known that this moment would come and had dreaded its arrival. He forced a smile: "I guess you've got to go and save the world, right?"

"Something like that." Dane looked away, blinking away his tears. "Jesse, I… I'll try not to be such a stranger. And I don't want it to be an emergency that brings me here next time…" He trailed off.

"But you don't want to make promises you might not be able to keep," Jesse concluded, his eyes dropping back to the bedclothes. There was no condemnation in his voice – just weary acceptance. He was realistic enough to recognise that, despite the closeness they'd shared, very little was likely to change between them. "Take care of yourself, dad."

"You too, son." Dane got to his feet, but then his hand – that had so recently been released – was caught again.

"Dad?" He glanced down at Jesse and saw earnest blue eyes peering up at him. "Thank you."

_For what? For killing Wayne? For protecting him from a truth that he had been too young to hear? For coming to his rescue now and saving him from Bill Burton? For all of those things? _Jesse didn't know – he just knew that it was important that he say those words.

His father seemed to understand, as he smiled down at him: "You're my son, Jesse. You don't have to thank me for anything."

* * *

Dane closed the door softly behind him, taking a deep breath and swallowing the remnants of his tears.

"Are you alright?" Mark asked, softly.

Dane didn't start at the sound of his voice – he'd known that the doctor was there – but he'd needed the moment to regain his composure.

"Mark," he said, ignoring the concerned enquiry. "I know that in the years that you've known him, you have played a big part in Jesse's life. You've helped to mould him and teach him and make him into the man he is today. I know…" He took a breath, his recently regained composure threatening to desert him. "I know that I haven't been here and I know that I've barely spoken to him over the years, but I have been thinking about him. Frequently."

"Of course you have," Mark frowned. He had never doubted that for a moment.

"There are many things that I regret in my life," the agent went on. "Many things that I would do differently if I had my time over again – and I think that's true for any man."

Mark opened his mouth to respond, but Dane held up his hand, stopping him.

"I just wanted to say that the one thing I don't regret is that Jesse ended up here." Dane's steady gaze gave truth to his words. "Thanks to you, he has known the love of a family – that neither I nor his mother was able to provide. Thanks to you, he's happy."

"You couldn't stay? Even for a little while?" Mark recognised a goodbye when he heard one.

"I wish I could." He reached out and Mark accepted the proffered handshake. "I mean it, Mark: thank you. And, though I have no right to impose on you for anything, I would be grateful if you could keep looking out for him. Keep him safe."

"You didn't even have to ask."

Dane offered him the briefest of smiles: "I knew that."

With one final shake of hands, Dane – the concerned father – was gone, leaving the CIA agent in his stead. Straightening his crumpled jacket he strode down the corridor without as much as a backward glance.

* * *

Jesse's eyes were closed, but he wasn't sleeping. Mark knew that from the sound of his breathing – and he could also see the evidence of recently shed tears on his cheeks. He sat down in his customary position on the edge of the bed.

"Jesse?" He kept his tone deliberately gentle and undemanding. Now was not the time to make the young man feel pressured.

"I'm okay." The response was non-committal and not convincing.

Mark didn't call him on it. In fact he said nothing at all – he wanted Jesse to open up of his own accord. But he did lay a comforting hand on his friend's forearm. The tactic worked as the faltering voice spoke up again.

"I just…" Jesse swallowed heavily, fighting against a fresh onslaught of accursed tears. "I just wish things could've been different, you know?"

"I know, Jesse." Mark smiled, even though the younger man wasn't looking at him. "And you know something else? He does too."

Finally Jesse's eyes opened and he gave Mark a watery smile. "Thanks," he murmured. There was a long pause and then: "Mark?"

"Yes, Jesse?"

"Is that, um… is that the end of it?" There was a hint of pleading in his voice. "Is it over?"

"I really don't know." The older doctor didn't even consider lying to him. They both knew just how complex the human mind was. He looked at his colleague appraisingly: "What do you think?"

"Huh?" The young man looked confounded by the question.

"I'm not going to ask what you and your father were talking about," Mark explained. "But I'm guessing that it had something to do with what happened all those years ago. How did it feel to talk about it?"

"I didn't…" Jesse's lips quirked into a smile. "I didn't go nuts, if that's what you mean." Mark chuckled softly at the joke. "I… I dunno, Mark. I nearly lost it a couple of times. But my dad…" He glanced away. "He's not a bad man, Mark."

"I know he isn't." Mark frowned at the sudden change of subject.

"There's, um… There's something I need to tell you."

"Jesse…" The older man's voice was laced with concern.

"No, Mark. You said yourself that if I don't talk about this – if I don't confront it – then it's never going to go away." Jesse looked up at him, sincerely. "I need to do this."

Mark scrutinised him for the longest time – taking in his pleading gaze, his earnest expression. Jesse had been terrified by what had happened to him and it was indicative of his character, of his quiet courage, that he should want to do this now.

"Mark." Jesse fretted in the lengthening silence. "I need to know that it isn't gonna happen again – that I can talk about it without, you know, regressing." He gave a slight shrug. "I mean, I may never talk about it again – but if after seventeen years something like that can happen, who's to say what might happen in the future? I want to…" He smiled, sadly. "I just want to know, Mark."

"Of course you do, Jess." Mark made his decision and settled more comfortably onto the bed. "I just wanted to be sure that you were feeling up to it."

"I'm not sure that I ever will," the young man confessed. He took a deep breath. "But I have to try." His mentor's hand still rested on his arm and his gaze dropped to it. "I… I'm not sure what's going to happen… What I might say… Are you sure you want to listen?"

Mark couldn't even summon up a reassuring smile. It hurt him that Jesse could even consider that he might not want to be there for him. It hurt him, but didn't surprise him. After all, until he had arrived in LA, the young man had spent the majority of his life with no-one to rely on.

"I'm not going anywhere, my friend," he promised, his sombre tone in keeping with the mood. "However long it takes and whatever you want to say – I'll be right here."

"I've never talked about it," Jesse began, falteringly. "I mean, what it was like with… with Wayne. I've never talked about it to anyone. I guess that wasn't very healthy."

There was no humour in Mark's responding smile, only infinite sadness and he moved his hand so that it was clasping Jesse's.

"It was so hard, trying to be perfect all of the time. But, in truth, even perfection wasn't good enough for him. There was always some reason, some excuse…"

Mark kept a careful eye on his young friend – but he wasn't regressing, just remembering. And, after the first memory had emerged, the rest followed as the walls in his mind were demolished.

* * *

"And I couldn't even apologise." Jesse's voice, that had been soft and hesitant suddenly flared into anger. "Half the time, I didn't even know what I'd done wrong, so how could I apologise? What the hell was I supposed to do?"

Though the outburst was uncharacteristic, Mark wasn't at all surprised by it – in fact, he welcomed it. Too many feelings had been buried for too long and it could only do Jesse good to get them out into the open.

"I couldn't fight him, I couldn't stop him – I couldn't even tell anyone!" The young man continued, recalling the desperation he had felt at the time – that the abuse would never end, that it was all he would ever know. "I tried – once – but he threatened to kill my mom. What was I supposed to do? What kind of a bastard would say that to a little kid?"

The expletive suddenly brought Jesse out of his rage and he blushed fiercely as he glanced towards Mark.

"Um… sorry…"

"It's alright, Jesse." Mark smiled at his look of absolute contrition. "I think you're entitled to be angry." He, himself, was furious. Even though close to two decades had passed, he shared every moment of his friend's pain. As with Dane before him, futile 'if onlys' were running through his head.

"No, I…" Jesse wasn't about to forgive himself so easily. "I, um… I shouldn't have said that. And I… I'm sorry. I didn't mean to go on for so long. I mean, you must have some place more important to be."

"Jesse, at this moment in time there is nowhere on this Earth that is more important than right here."

"Thanks, Mark." Jesse smiled shyly up at him. "I appreciate everything you're doing for me. But I… I don't think there's really very much more to say."

"You're sure?"

"Yeah." The younger man shrugged half-heartedly. "Wayne got killed and well, that was the end of it. Except…"

"What?" Mark frowned as Jesse suddenly began to look uncomfortable under his gaze.

"It isn't right." Mark's curiosity grew at those words – and the way that his friend could no longer meet his eyes. "It's not fair. I mean, I know how you love a mystery and you help the police and everything. And, hey, there was even that guy who'd been dead for thirty years and you found out who killed him."

"Jess…" Mark tried, unsuccessfully, to interrupt the sudden bout of babbling.

"And it's not just you, is it?" Jesse continued, not hearing him at all. "I mean, Steve as well – he got onto Elgin and found out all about Wayne. And he's gonna know that his murder was never solved. He's just like you – he's not gonna like it. But I can't tell you anything because…" His agitation growing, Jesse's talking speeded up. "Because then there'll be so much trouble. And I don't want to let you down, but then I'll get someone else into trouble and…"

"Jesse. Jesse!" Mark couldn't help but smile as he realised the reason for Jesse's sudden animation and he deliberately raised his voice to get through to the younger man. "Jess, it's okay."

"Wha..?" Slightly breathless from his outburst, Jesse looked at him with utter bewilderment. "How can it be?"

"Jesse, listen to me." Mark smiled again. "The only thing that concerns me about that day – the _only_ thing – is that you are able to talk about it." He held up one hand, forestalling the imminent interruption. "I'm not going to ask you to do that – I just wanted to know that you could. And besides." He smiled slyly at his colleague. "Didn't you know that all of the great detectives had their 'one that got away'?"

Jesse opened his mouth to reply, thought for a moment and then closed it again. He tried again, but still no words emerged. Mark watched as the look on his face slowly transformed into understanding.

"You… You know what happened, don't you?" the young man asked. Then he frowned as Mark responded with the briefest wink – that he wasn't even sure he hadn't imagined.

"What I know is that you look exhausted." He put on a mock stern tone. "You do still need to rest and recuperate, you know."

"But…"

"You've been through a lot these past couple of days," Mark went on, blithely. "You can't expect to just bounce back as though nothing has happened."

"But…"

"And you were pretty badly hurt. Don't forget about your ribs – and we've only just got that infection under control."

"But, Mark…" It was hopeless. His colleague had no intention of letting him get a word in.

"And, as your doctor, I'm going to prescribe sleep – and plenty of it." He got to his feet and smiled fondly at his protégé. "You're going to be okay, Jess."

"I know I am." Jesse felt tears prick at the corners of his eyes at the warmth that those words had contained. "I…" He glanced away, embarrassed by his sudden display of emotion. There was only one thing left for him to say. "Thank you."

* * *

Mark made it a dozen steps down the corridor – out of sight of Jesse's room – before collapsing heavily against the wall. Nothing could have prepared him for what he had just heard and the weight of those words threatened to crush him.

He had strived to be professional and supportive as the full details of those nightmare months had emerged, but now he didn't have to keep up that pretence. Now he could react as a father and not as a doctor.

"Dear God, Jesse," he whispered, covering his face with one shaking hand. "I wish I could have been there for you…"

Jesse had slotted so easily into his life – into his family and his heart – that it was easy to forget that he hadn't always been there. The time that he had just spent with his friend had been a brutal reminder that he hadn't. His mind drifted back to the words that Steve had said to him in the doctors' lounge as they had watched Jesse sleep_: "I was wondering how – after everything that he went through – he could still turn out to be the man that he is."_

He had known at the time that it was true. Now he was forced to realise just how true. He had been involved in criminology long enough to know that broken homes often led to broken people. And Jesse's home hadn't just been broken – it had been decimated.

Hell didn't even come close to describing what the boy had been through. Mark was not an advocate of corporal punishment, he never had been, but to beat a child for the mere sake of it – when there was not even the excuse of discipline – almost defied belief.

But he also knew that there were monsters in the world who were more than capable of such atrocities – and of much, much worse. He tried to feel some gratitude that Jesse had even survived at Wayne Burton's hands, but remembering the pain filled, stuttering words, he found that nothing could temper his anger – or his profound heartache at what he had just shared with his friend.

"Mark? Mark! Are you alright?"

Amanda's worried voice cut through his reflections an indeterminable amount of time later. He was, he realised, still sagged against the wall in the corridor outside Jesse's room.

"Mark? Is it Jesse?" There was growing panic in her voice and Mark raised his head, intending to offer her a reassuring smile. It can't have been overly convincing because the worry on her face didn't decrease one iota. "Mark, please. What's wrong?"

"Amanda…" He forced the words out through a throat that was too tight. "What that boy went through…"

"Oh, Mark." Amanda sighed, her concern switching from one friend to another. "You need to sit down. Come on, let's get you some coffee." Taking hold of his arm, she guided him towards the doctors' lounge.

"He just told me everything, Amanda." His voice was broken, devastated. "And there's not a damned thing I can do to help him."

"You already have helped him," the pathologist told him, her tone daring him to argue. She placed a mug of coffee in front of him and wrapped his hands around it. They were shaking. "You couldn't help him then because you didn't know him. You weren't there. And if you had been then you would have stopped it. You don't need me to tell you that, Mark Sloan."

"How can anyone do that to a child?"

"You've said it yourself, Mark. Sometimes it's impossible to understand the human race." She laid one hand on his arm. "How is Jesse?"

"Sleeping, I hope." He glanced up, suddenly realising that he and Amanda were alone in the lounge. "Where's Steve?"

"He went into work. He said he needed the distraction."

Mark nodded absently. That sounded like his son – he didn't do waiting very well.

TBC


	16. Chapter 16

Rating: T for violence/language

Rating: T for violence/language.

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters of DM. I do own the ones I created.

Skeletons

Chapter Sixteen

It was actually the following morning before Steve got to see Jesse again. He had called back at the hospital the previous night, but his friend had been sleeping and he hadn't wanted to disturb him.

So he went home and got a decent night's sleep before returning to visit the young man. Jesse was sitting propped up in bed when he walked in. He was still looking pale and there were lines of strain around his eyes that gave Steve cause to wonder whether he had suffered from nightmares, but he knew better than to just ask outright. Mark was also there, sitting at his bedside.

"Hey, dad," he greeted his father first, before turning his full attention to the patient. "Hi, Jess. How are you feeling?"

"Better – thanks to Mark." Jesse smiled shyly and glanced towards his mentor, who returned his quiet gratitude with a smile of his own.

"Oh, before I forget. I brought you something." Steve perched on the edge of the bed and withdrew the paper bag that he'd previously kept hidden behind his back. He grinned as Jesse's face lit up with excitement and he eagerly snatched the bag from his hands.

"Cookies?" Jesse looked up, still grinning. "Hey, thanks."

"Home-made, too."

"Huh?" Jesse had been about to take a bite out of one of the treats, but stopped abruptly when he heard those words. "You made cookies?" He turned it over in his hands, eying it dubiously. "Should I be afraid?"

"They're not from me," Steve informed him, ignoring the jibe He was working to his own agenda and payback wouldn't be long in coming. "Patricia Carter asked me to give them to you."

"Oh." Jesse's face dropped at the mention of the psychiatrist's name, but Steve didn't allow him to dwell on any discomfiture. This was the perfect opportunity for some gentle teasing and he wasn't about to let it pass him by.

"She seems to think you need looking after," he continued, blithely. "What was it she said? Oh, yeah – that boy's nothing but skin and bone. He'll waste away completely if he doesn't start eating properly."

"Hey!" Jesse's protest was totally ineffective.

"Yeah, she seems to think that you need fattening up." Steve ignored him completely. "I think she mentioned something about some chicken broth the next time she was passing. Yep, she definitely thinks you're on the skinny side."

"I am not skinny!" Jesse heard Mark fail to stifle a chuckle and glowered at him. "Aren't you supposed to be on my side?"

Mark couldn't immediately answer. He looked pointedly at Jesse's hand and the half-eaten cookie that he now held. He had been munching on it without even realising.

"Um…" A blush crept up the young doctor's cheeks as he followed his mentor's gaze. "Hey, at least my appetite's returned."

"It sure has," Steve murmured sardonically. "You feel like sharing?"

"Oh, no." Steve's hand was creeping towards the cookie bag, but Jesse snatched it out of reach. "Nope, you seem to think that I'm skinny. I'll need these to build up my strength."

"According to Doctor Carter, you need a good woman in your life," the detective retorted. "I think she might have even mentioned a daughter…"

The teasing suddenly backfired as a startled Jesse choked on a mouthful of chocolate chip, spraying crumbs all over the detective.

Mark leaned forwards in sudden concern as Jesse's choking fit showed no sign of abating. He patted him on the back, even as Steve got to his feet and poured a glass of water from the jug on the nightstand. A few sips of the liquid soon brought the coughing under control, but Jesse was still left red-faced from the exertion and couldn't hide his grimace as he lay back against the pillows.

"Jesse? Is it your ribs?" Mark asked, noting the way that the young man wrapped his arm around his midriff.

"Think I just aggravated something…" Jesse murmured.

"Jess, I'm sorry." Steve was utterly mortified that his fun had turned so suddenly sour. It had been just like old times for a while, but now his friend was suffering because of it.

"I'm okay." The young doctor waved a dismissive hand and forced a smile – but Steve could see that it was somewhat strained. "It just pulled a little."

"Do you want something for the pain?" Mark asked, noting that strain and the overly pale complexion.

"No. No, it's better now."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah." Jesse could see the guilt on Steve's features and sought some way to remove it. The pain in his ribs was genuinely beginning to subside and his mischievous spirit resurfaced. And he still hadn't forgotten the way that Steve had teased him. "So," he said slowly. "Is she a nice girl?"

"Huh?" The detective was totally lost by the sudden change of subject.

"Doctor Carter's daughter. Is she a nice girl?" He paused, thoughtfully. "I guess she must be," he mused. "I mean, if she was at all psychotic or murderous then you'd have snapped her up by now!"

This time, Mark didn't even attempt to stifle his laughter and that was the sound that greeted Amanda as she walked down the corridor towards Jesse's room. After a gentle knock on the door, she went in – her arrival cutting off Steve's indignant retort to Jesse's joke.

"Is this a private party or can anyone join in?" she asked by way of greeting.

"Hey, Amanda."

The bright, warm, genuine smile that Jesse bestowed on her was a real joy to behold. Amanda had had a difficult time since her return from Detroit. She had returned to work to the aftermath of the fire and the RTA – and had been kept busy with the casualties ever since. But her weariness was instantly forgotten when she saw how much better her young friend was looking. He was still bruised and had bandages covering his wounds, but his eyes were sparkling and, from the look on Steve's face, his sense of humour had also made a welcome return.

"So what's the big joke?" She sat on the other side of Jesse's bed, glad to be in such close proximity without the fear of him flinching away.

"Steve thought that he'd play at being matchmaker," Jesse told her, with an unmistakable smirk. "I just had to remind him that he's not exactly the best qualified for the job."

"Oh, I don't know, they can't all have been that bad," Amanda mused, seeming to lose herself in thought. "Oh, wait. They were."

Outnumbered, Steve threw up his hands in exasperation. He could have got in another crack – none of the women in his life had been a patch on the psychotic Chloe Marsden, who had become obsessed with his friend – but he decided to let Jesse have this one. The younger man was still looking pale and Steve felt mildly guilty that he was, at least partly, responsible for that. Besides, there would always be time for revenge later, when he was feeling stronger.

* * *

"So, he's really getting better," Steve said, looking in through the window as Jesse stabbed dubiously at his lunch. When the meal had arrived, the three of them had left him alone to eat – mostly so that the detective couldn't get his hands on the hospital food, his love for which still left both family and friends baffled.

"Yes, he is," Mark answered, though his voice held a cautionary note. "I think there'll still be some stumbling blocks along the way, but he'll get there."

"What about you, Mark?" Amanda put in, eying him with open concern. "You look exhausted.

"Yeah, dad." Steve couldn't help but agree with her. "Did you sleep at all last night?"

"I got a couple of hours." Mark's fatigue was beginning to catch up with him and he rubbed at his gritty eyes. "I just couldn't stop thinking… And when I did sleep…" He shook his head, unable to give voice to the nightmares that had plagued him. Nightmares of stumbling into the cellar where Bill Burton had held Jesse, but of seeing a child lying at the man's feet – a child who he continued to beat as Mark stood helplessly by and watched. He wanted to intervene, but every step he took caused Burton and Jesse to retreat until they faded through the wall and into a sunlit yard where the beating continued and the child screamed and screamed and screamed…

"Mark?"

"Dad?"

His son and his friend both spoke at the same moment and he gave himself a mental shake, dispelling the hideous images.

"I'm alright," he hastily assured them. "Just very tired." He smiled, somewhat sadly. "It doesn't matter how long ago it was; it doesn't matter that I wasn't even there. Somebody should have been. Somebody should have stopped it."

There was nothing that Steve or Amanda could say in response to such a statement, such a fact. The three of them walked down the corridor in silence.

* * *

Two days later – and despite still not sleeping overly well – Jesse felt strong enough to get out of bed. Mark had already made the decision to discharge him that afternoon. There had been no complications from the infection and his various injuries were healing nicely.

It had also been decided that he would recuperate fully back at the beach house, where there was usually going to be somebody to keep an eye on him. Mark was going to drive him home after his shift finished – hence the delay.

Jesse hadn't put up much more than a token argument. In truth, he wasn't sure he felt ready to return to his apartment. Not only had Burton broken into that place and kidnapped him, but it was also the scene where he had been plagued by the most dreadful nightmares.

But, though he was happy to be being released, he wasn't content to merely languish in his hospital bed for the entire day. As soon as he'd finished breakfast, he'd got dressed and then sat watching the clock – willing the hands to move so that he could go home.

Patience, however, was not the strongest virtue that Jesse possessed and it didn't take long for him to become bored. He wondered if he'd be able to convince Mark to let him go back to the beach house alone. He could get a cab and he wouldn't be by himself for very long. If he promised to take things easy – and not to touch anything – then he might just swing it.

Jesse sighed, even as these thoughts crossed his mind. Mark could be very protective at times and he had the feeling that this was going to be one of those times. But, he wouldn't know if he didn't ask.

Easing the door open and checking that the coast was clear from matronly nurses who had the tendency to want to mother him, he went off in search of his mentor.

He didn't know how he ended up outside Patricia Carter's office. It had never been his intention to go there – although he had absently thought that he really ought to thank her for the cookies. Somehow, though, that was where he found himself.

He stood in the corridor, far enough away from Patricia's door to be able to pass off his reason for being there as totally innocent, but close enough to question himself as to whether he had the courage to actually walk in.

The decision was taken out of his hands when that door suddenly opened. Jesse was on the verge of flight, his nerve deserting him completely, but then he saw who it was who had paused in the doorway – turning back to look into the office as he made his farewell. The shock of white hair was completely unmistakable and the sight of Mark froze Jesse in his tracks.

Though he didn't want his mentor to find him there, he found that his own curiosity compelled him to stay where he was. He wanted to get closer – not that he intended to eavesdrop – but he wanted to know why Mark Sloan felt the need to consult with a psychiatrist.

"Thank you, Patricia." Mark closed the door behind him, turning as he did so and Jesse lost any chance he might have had to escape. "Jesse, what are you doing here?"

"I, um…" The young man couldn't immediately answer. He didn't lie very well and everyone knew it. He didn't want to insult Mark by trying. He settled for a half truth instead. "I was looking for you."

"Well, you've found me," Mark smiled. He thought he knew why his friend was suddenly looking so uncomfortable, but he didn't want to push the issue. "Was it anything important?"

"No, um… I…" Jesse's hands were in his pockets and he was looking at the floor as he spoke. "I… I thought I might… you know, um… I was going to thank Doctor Carter…" He risked a peek at his mentor's face and was relieved to see only understanding there. "For the… for the cookies… You know?"

"I think that's a very kind idea, Jesse." Mark felt a sudden surge of pride that – whatever excuse he used – his friend was seeking out the person who could truly help him. He was unable to keep that pride out of his voice. "I'm sure she'll appreciate you stopping by."

"Is she, um..?" Jesse discomfort still hadn't lessened at all. "Is she busy?"

"She was, but she's free now. Why don't you go on in?"

"Yeah." Jesse smiled a little nervously. "Yeah, I think I'll do that."

"You know, Jesse." Mark caught the younger man's arm as he passed him. "She really is very good at what she does."

Jesse's eyes widened as he absorbed those words. Mark had been looking strained and tired for the past couple of days, but now the familiar sparkle seemed to be back in his eyes. "You?" he whispered disbelievingly.

"You're never too old or can know too much that you don't have to ask for help on occasion."

A sliver of guilt stabbed at Jesse's heart as he thought about how he was responsible for driving Mark to need psychiatric help.

"Jesse." The older doctor read him easily and instantly sought to absolve that guilt. "The first time that I asked for Patricia's help was more than ten years ago. And that most certainly wasn't the last time. I'm sure I'll have cause to consult her in the future as well."

"You?" Jesse repeated, breathless with shock at what he had just learnt.

"We work in a very traumatic environment. It's draining both physically and mentally." Mark spoke frankly, trying to convince his friend that there was no need to feel ashamed or embarrassed. "Sometimes you need to talk things through with somebody other than your friends or family – somebody detached, who can give you an honest, impartial opinion; not to mention the benefit of her years of experience. And you know that anything you say to her is in the strictest confidence."

"Yeah, but…"

"But nothing." His words were having some effect – Jesse was noticeably relaxing. "Go in there and thank her for the cookies, just like you intended to. If you happen to end up talking about anything else, well, that's just between the two of you."

"Yeah." At last there was some conviction in the younger man's voice and his responding smile was considerably less strained. "I'll do that. Thanks, Mark."

"You're very welcome Jesse." Another crisis averted, Mark decided to lighten the mood. "And when you've finished here, come and find me again. I want to have a little chat about you being up and about when I know I said you weren't being discharged until this afternoon."

* * *

Steve got home from work the following evening feeling inordinately pleased with himself. He had good news and was looking forward to sharing it with everyone. His dad picked up on his mood the moment that he walked through the door but, before he could say anything, a blonde head popped up from the couch.

"Hey, Steve." Jesse was more relaxed than he could ever have been at the hospital and Steve decided that he was definitely well enough for a little payback.

"Hi, Jess," he said, carefully schooling his expression. "I'm sorry buddy, I didn't mean to wake you."

"I wasn't sleeping." Jesse's response was exactly what the detective had hoped.

"You weren't?" He feigned a look of staggered surprise. "I figured that because you weren't eating you had to be."

"Hey!" the young man retorted, indignantly. "I'm not always eating."

"Jesse, you've been here for less than two days and already dad's sent me out for extra groceries."

"And I'll tell you something else." Mark decided to join in the fun. "He was eating right before you walked through the door – but Amanda confiscated his corn chips."

"Aw, Mark." Jesse's bottom lip came out in a classic Travis pout. "You didn't have to tell him that."

"If he hadn't then I would have." Amanda entered the room and shot the suddenly besieged young man a fondly indulgent smile. "You were ruining your appetite."

"That appetite? It couldn't be ruined." Steve couldn't resist another dig. "I swear you're a miracle of modern medicine, Jess. There's no way that you've only got one stomach – not with the amount of food that you put away."

"Isn't it cows that have more than one stomach?" Mark mused aloud.

"Hey!"

Amanda allowed him to voice his protest and then, with a twinkle in her eyes, exchanged an amused glance with both Mark and Steve.

"I actually came up here to tell you…" She paused, focussed solely on Jesse. "That dinner is served."

Jesse scrambled to his feet and was halfway to the kitchen before he even heard the laughter of his friends. He stopped in his tracks and turned back to glare at them.

"You know." Mark had tears of mirth standing in his eyes. "I don't think I've ever seen him move quite that quickly before. Broken ribs or not."

"You still wanna tell me that you don't spend most of your time thinking with your stomach – or stomachs – Jess?" Steve put in.

It was Amanda who took pity on him, watching as a flush of embarrassment slowly crept up his cheeks.

"Well I take it as a compliment," she said, diplomatically. "You're just looking forward to sampling my wonderful cooking, aren't you honey?"

"Yeah!" Jesse shot a triumphant glance to the father and son – then he linked arms with Amanda and they entered the kitchen together.

"So, Steve," Mark said, as they settled around the table. "You never did tell us just why you were in such a good mood when you can home from work this evening."

"You make it sound like that's a rare occurrence." Even as he said the words he nailed Jesse with a mock-stern glare. "And you – not a word."

The look that Jesse gave him in return was all innocence – or it would have been had it not been for the mischievous glint in his eye. Any smart retort he might have made was lost as Amanda served the food. It was a Mexican chicken dish that was spicy enough to have Steve sniffing at it suspiciously and Jesse digging in almost as soon as his plate touched the table.

"Steve?" Mark prompted – eying the dish appreciatively. "Why the good mood?"

"Bill Burton finally pleaded guilty to all charges today." Steve automatically looked at Jesse as he said those words, aware that both Mark and Amanda had done the same – but all they saw was the top of a blonde, bowed head.

"Jess?" Amanda's voice was filled with concern. "That's good news, honey. There'll be no long, drawn-out trial; no need for you to give evidence."

"I know." Jesse's voice was whisper soft. "But I… I guess you can't really blame the guy for wanting to know the truth."

"Don't waste your sympathy on him, pal." Steve wasn't about to let his friend feel even one iota of responsibility for what had happened. "This had nothing to do with truth or justice."

"But if I had a brother and he had been murdered…"

"You would have left no stone unturned in tracking down his killer." Mark finished the thought for him. "But you would have done so at the time – not seventeen years later. And most certainly not motivated by greed."

"And that's the crux of it, Jess." Steve was relieved to see Jesse raise his head and the guilt no longer radiated from him. "That was where his every argument fell apart and eventually led to his confession. Bill Burton didn't give a damn about his brother until his inheritance was riding on him finding out the truth."

"Jess?" Amanda prompted into the silence that followed those words.

"I'm okay." A reassuring smile accompanied his words. "I was just thinking…"

"Careful, Jesse." Steve teased, in an effort to ease the tension. He was rewarded with a fleeting – yet genuine – smile.

"I was thinking that, whenever something bad happens, well…" He shrugged a little self-consciously. "You always try to look for something good to come out of it."

"And have you Jesse?" Mark asked, even as he thought just how typical that was of his friend. "Have you found something good?"

"Yeah," the young man smiled again. "I mean, my dad. I guess I understand him more now – why he did what he did. And mom too." He paused. "I guess I feel… I don't know… Closer to them, somehow."

"That is good," Mark answered, sparing a fond glance towards his own son.

"Yeah, it's helped." The mood had been in danger of becoming grim but, with the help of his friends, the tension had passed. And, while he was grateful for their support, he still hadn't forgotten the way that they'd teased him – most especially Steve. "And of course, there's always Patricia Carter…"

That took all of them by surprise and none of them noticed the wicked glint that had suddenly entered Jesse's eyes. Though only Mark knew that he had been consulting with the psychiatrist, hers was the last name that any of them had expected him to mention of his own accord.

"Patricia Carter?" It was Amanda who asked the inevitable.

"Yeah." The cheeky grin returned with full force and his next words were directed solely at Steve. "Her daughter's really cute, you know."

His timing was perfect and revenge was most definitely sweet as the startled detective spluttered and choked – and Mexican chicken was sprayed all over Mark's previously pristine tablecloth.

THE END.

**Author's note: Sincere thanks to everyone who has followed this story and left such wonderful reviews. I hope to be back soon (work, real life, etc. permitting), but I don't know what I'll come up with next. The muse has been dormant for a little while now but, hopefully, inspiration will find me again soon. Till the next time…**

**Best wishes, Helen.**


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